One Thing Left to Hide
by cocolovespedro
Summary: Regulus Black has got a secret. And the one person who'd kill to find out - is the very person he'd die to keep it from. An intimate glimpse into Regulus and the Marauders' final weeks at Hogwarts.
1. The End

**One Thing Left to Hide**

**Chapter 1**

**The End.  
**

"_I still owe money, to the money, to the money I owe._

_I never thought about love, when I thought about home._

_I still owe money to the money, to the money I owe._

_The floors are falling out from_

_Everybody I know._

_I'm on a blood buzz, yes, I am._

_I'm on a blood buzz."_

**[The National/Bloodbuzz Ohio]**

"Why are you doing this?"

I grab onto his lapels. Lapels. It's three-thirty in the goddamn morning. On a Tuesday. But who am I kidding? When the boy heads down to the Great Hall on a coffee run, he's all cufflinks and properly pressed suits and embroidered family emblems.

"Because, I… Evie. I already told you. It's complicated…"

"And because I'm such a simpleton I couldn't POSSIBLY understand," I interject. My words are harsh, but notably lacking the bitter bite, the astringent sting I hoped they would have. Largely because a big, gurggling choking sound somehow managed to escape from my throat somewhere toward the end. Great. I hate crying. Especially in front of him.

"You know that's not what I'm saying."

I make a valiant effort to blink back the renegade tears stinging the corners of my eyes before craning my neck to look up at him. Craning. I'm always gazing upward. Not at the skies – but at him. He's tall. Freakishly so. A fact I always make sure he is keenly aware of, and of all the potential chiropractic problems that will plague me later in life as direct result of this relationship, and his inexcusable tallness. I guess I won't have to worry about that so much now.

I blink again, one final, failed attempt to clear my vision. It's gray in the dungeons, and cold. It's always cold. The perpetually unlit fireplace in our common room is a joke. I'm fairly certain some some ancient, crusty-faced Slytherin Head of House installed it once when he fancied a giggle.

I force myself to stare at Regulus now; he's shrouded in a haze of mascara-muddled tears.

His silk, silver and green tie is loosely knotted at the nape of his neck (I briefly envision a scenario in which I grab the aforementioned tie and slide that knot up to the bottom of his chiseled chin and throttle him to death. Bad idea.), the top few buttons of his white shirt are undone, revealing the planes of his equally pallid skin. Always one for appearances; so much more than a merely dedicated follower of fashion – he's practically a goddamn disciple.

I tell myself these minor wardrobe slips are clearly indicators of his extreme emotional duress. They had _better_ fucking be. I deserve at least that much – a couple of unfastened buttons and a loosened tie.

"Then say it… BETTER." My words are forced now. My body weak from trying to restrain the full-blown sob that seems to have lodged itself in my throat. It aches. The muscles are tight, strained, stretched against my jaw. I quickly sweep my eyes back toward the ancient, elaborate stone floor. I'm sure it was pretty once. But now, it's gray. Just like everything else in here: the couches, the candelabras; the paintings of elaborately dressed, sneering Slytherins of yore still clinging to the walls, in spite of the fact that nobody bothers looking at them anymore.

No response. Instead, he sighs. And I don't have to look at him to know that he's running one of those long-fingered, bony hands of his through his hair. That HAIR. That STUPID hair. It practically has its own fan-club at this school – moronic Hufflepuffs titter about it in the hallways when he walks by; SHE makes sure to snake at least one of her disgusting fingers through those dark tresses, especially when she knows I'm looking.

I burn. The ache in my throat travels downward through my chest, my ribs, my spine, outward to my fingers. He's gorgeous. He's gorgeous, and I hate him. I'm standing here, red-eyed and puffy, clutching my hands into fists, digging my fingers into my palms, my nails ripped and jagged, because I'm pretty sure I gnawed them off somewhere toward the beginning of this conversation.

But, it's almost over now. I can feel it. It's come down to this. The final moments. I've made my protests; he's made his excuses. Part of me wishes he'd just turn on the heel of his black, polished shoe and leave; get it all over with. Part of me, the darker, masochistic part, never wants it to end. I want time to slow, to stretch out into some uncharted dimension; so I can wrap myself in this moment, curl up with it. Everything. Each black mascara pathway on my face, every contrived "sorry", every gasping gulp of air I manage to inhale that's laced with his cologne.

"I'm sorry…"

I wince.

"Evie, I… I want to tell you, but… I CAN'T…"

His voice breaks. I snap my head up. He's gripping his left arm, caressing it. He's always doing that lately. For a moment, the tiniest second, he looks small. His head hangs elegantly to the side, his grey eyes focused on something I can't see. I used to see everything. I knew everything: his pet peeves (there are many), people he'd really rather not have to associate with (even more), how to make him smile (something he reserves for a privileged few). But not anymore. Not lately.

His face is suddenly smooth again, after he catches me staring.

"But I… can't explain it. It's just… not working out."

Well, there you have it. Things are spinning now. I try to remember how to stand. It's difficult – standing. Colors are bright, unnatural; dripping with hues. This doesn't make sense. Shapes are warped, stretching, folding in upon themselves; sounds amplified, wailing, like the cacophonous army of de-tuned accordions Flitwick sometimes charms to play alongside his chorale group (God, I hate those kids). All of this pounding, hammering at my brain. But it doesn't process. I refuse. My knees give. Suddenly, laughter. Sick peals of laughter; witches cackling. Two of them. Getting closer. This is real, I think.

"Reggie…"

I know that voice. I'd know that simpering, nasally drawl anywhere. Maybe this IS a dream. A very, very bad one.

"Come ON, Reggie, we're going to be _late_. And you know how He HATES it when we're late."

Bellatrix looks directly at me as she makes a show of encircling herself around one of Reg's long arms; her dark, pointed-nail tipped fingers slithering playfully up into his hair. THAT hair – hair I no longer have any claim to. I'm fairly certain I'm going to vomit. Narcisa giggles – a fairly simple task for most, but one that Narcissa, excuse me, "CISSY", manages to make to make look as though it's sapping every ounce of energy from her frail body (probably because it does). I'm guessing this draining giggle is in response to the mixture of pain, rage, and outright nausea contorting my face into a grimace.

I look at him. For some reason, I'm waiting for him to protest. To disentangle himself, push her away. Say, "Forgive me, Bell-UH, but Evie and I were in the middle of something." That's me. Stupid me. Eternally hopeful, always seeing the very best, and expecting just as much from him. Because I know. I know _him_.

But he doesn't.

"Yes." He clears his throat. He straightens his tie. "He isn't exactly a fan of… tardiness."

More giggling. More lilting, jeering laughter. Jeering, because they're laughing at a joke that I'm clearly not in on. I don't know who "_he_" is, and I don't care. I don't give a _fuck_. The only "he" I know at this moment is Regulus Artcurus Black, and all I'm aware of is the fact that he's walking away. Walking away with _her_.

He hangs his head as he walks by, Bella clinging to his arm, practically skipping alongside him to keep up with his lengthy strides. Cissy glides along behind them, looking dimly aware of the fact that she's moving. I stare after them. This can't be happening. He wouldn't do this to me. He couldn't. Not Regulus. Not my Reg. The person I'd spent the last five years of my life with – in one form or another. No. I hear the entryway to our dank, gray, dungeon common room slide closed. And then it's there. The silence.

I glance around. My tongue lies limp in my mouth, heavy and thick. My heartbeat knocks against my brain, up near my temples. I can't move. I stare at my feet. Still there. Still standing. And then, the rage comes. I hate him. I want to hurt him. Do something so much more visceral than throttle him to death with a tie. I want to grab him, scratch his face, pummel him, make him hurt. Hurt like I do. Because once the rage is gone, it's overwhelming.

My knees buckle. I sink back against the cold stone walls, smacking the back of my skull as I fold into a sort of sitting position. But I don't feel it. I can't breathe. It's there. The pain, the loss. Sitting heavy on my chest, obstructing the air I'm gasping at, air that's repeatedly failing to squeeze its way through to my lungs. I grasp at my chest, those ripped and jagged nails of mine catching, tearing at my blue, nearly translucent flesh. I hope I bleed. I can't see. I think I might have screamed; a pathetic, choking fox-cry, but I'm not sure.

"Oi! I'm still standin' 'ere, ye know! Merlin's BEARD… howlin' like banshees, never payin' proper respects, none of 'em…"

I turn my stunned, wild-eyed gaze to look upon the figure in the painting I'd just collapsed/slammed my head into. Such a trivial, mundane part of my everyday reality. These things still exist?

"Yeh, NOW ye see me," says the pompous little wizard.

But I don't. I close my eyes.

All I see is Black.


	2. Wake Up

**Chapter 2**

**Wake Up.  
**

"_I told you to be patient_

_I told you to be fine_

_I told you to be balanced_

_I told you to be kind._

_Now all your love is wasted?_

_Then who the hell am I?_

_Who will love you?_

_Who will fight?_

_Who will fall far behind?"_

**[Bon Iver/Skinny Love]**

Eventually, my eyes open. Damn. I wake up. DAMN it. Somehow, I'm in my dormitory. I don't know how long I've been sleeping. I don't know how I got here. I glance down at my clothes. Pajamas. I was wearing pajamas. Lapels. I wince. There's a flash, and with it, a dull, gnawing ache originating in my chest, one that travels down through my arm all the way to the palm of my left hand.

I was in my pajamas, he was in lapels. The bastard.

I pick myself up. Somehow. I roll out of bed. The dorm is empty. What time is it? I squint at the pale, thin beams of light straining to stretch across the floor of my room. Morning? I decide I don't care.

I make my way to the bathrooms. The halls are empty. There are scattered artifacts of lives and livelihood discarded here and there: books, broken quills, sweets wrappers. I imagine if I touch them, they would feel warm. Imbued with a breath and a life that I currently seem to lack. I make the mistake of looking in the mirror.

My short, closely cropped blond hair sticks out in nonsensical directions. The mascara streams have dried into dotted riverbeds of black residue, mixing with the smattering of freckles haphazardly strewn across my nose and cheeks. My normally blue eyes now appear to be a sickly shade of green, nestled amongst the bloodshot mess that would otherwise be the whites of my eyes. I want to smash it, my reflection. Shatter the image of whatever physical pieces of myself that are somehow still remaining, still functioning. I don't. I wash my face instead.

I shuffle about, not really knowing what to do with myself. Should I go to class? Are there classes? What DAY is it?

Eventually, I'm dressed. I figure whatever course of action I decide to pursue, it will be slightly more bearable if there's coffee.

I can hear the voices before I reach the bottom of those revolving staircases that I still haven't really gotten the hang of yet. It must be breakfast. Or lunch. Either way, there's people. And I'm terrified. I hadn't really stopped to consider how I would handle this situation. Being that I was sorted into Slytherin House, it was generally expected that I comply with the rigid nationalism that seemed to infect everyone else at this school, and sit at the Slytherin table. When Regulus and I started dating two years ago, that really sealed my fate, and my seat. So to speak.

It wasn't always this way, though. We all used to be friends: James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Regulus, and myelf. Even Sirius and Reg liked each other at one point – though they'd both die before they ever admit it. Regular poster-children for inter-house unity, we were. But then, things changed.

James shot up about a foot and started doing that stupid thing with HIS hair that he does. Lily claimed to hate it, but I knew she didn't, and I told her so. James and Sirius began acting like the owned the place; romping and rollicking through the hallways; barking and laughing and shouting loudly as they went, shoving each other and firing off hexes and spells – making sure they attracted as much attention to themselves as possible – not that they really needed to try. They were magnetic – they still are. People flock to them, their warmth, their friendliness; their easy-going natures. It doesn't hurt that half of the girls in the school are in love with them, either. The bolder and brasher James and Sirius grew, the more Remus retreated into his books.

Remus and I were never all that close, but I always liked him, his gentle movements; his quiet, measured voice. He never seemed to enjoy Sirius and James's antics, but he never said anything, either. If you watched him, you would always be able to see the subtle movements of his disapproval: an eye-roll here, a brow-furrow there, and every so often, a slow shaking of the head. But, he never said anything. Sometimes, it seemed that there were about a million other places that Remus would rather be than plodding along next to James and Sirius, the library, for one, but he was just too… tired. Too exhausted to break away and head in a different direction.

Regulus and I were both a year younger, but we never thought this mattered much. Sirius felt some sort of brotherly obligation to "show Reg the ropes", and Lily and I had an instantaneous connection from the moment we met at King's Cross Station my first year, when we both struggled to lug our heavy trunks onto that glistening, cherry-red train. And so it was, our little clique was born.

Peter came along later; when James and his ego had reached their most insufferable peak. And, along with Peter, toddled this notion of "the side-kick". James attempted to relegate "us youngsters" and Lumpy McLumperson to this role, something neither Reg nor myself were very thrilled about. Peter, on the other hand, seemed thrilled whenever James condescended to speak to him. Over the years, Regulus quickly grew from a pale, stringy little thing into the sinewy, obscenely tall specimen that he is today. And as he grew taller, he began to develop an ego of his own.

To the delight of girls of all houses (and some professors as well – all of whom shall remain nameless), James and Regulus clashed famously – both on and off the Quidditch pitch. Sirius did what Sirius does best, act unaffected and disinterested until he felt so moved to hurl a well-placed punch at Regulus's face. Sirius never misses. And I have the skill with the _episkey _spell to prove it. Lily and I did our best to stay out of it, but every day it grew more and more clear that lines were being drawn, and, inevitably, sides would have to be chosen.

And then, there was "that Slytherin thing," as Sirius liked to refer to it. I never recalled it seeming all that important when we were younger, but now, I know so much better. I remember that day – the day of our sorting. I remember staring into the faces of James and Lily and Sirius – James's mischievous eyes glistening, the cascading light of a million tiny candle-flames reflecting off the waves of Lily's long, red hair, Sirius's pleased, knowing smirk at the trembling, awe-struck horror of me and my fellow first-years.

I watched from my spot toward the middle of the line as Regulus, Sirius's younger brother (Lily had kindly introduced me to him that day on the train), strode confidently toward the tall stool, only making the slightest of faces before Professor McGonogall dropped the dirty, sodden-looking talking hat onto his head. I imagined it would smell bad. It did. Later, in the privacy of our shared common room, Reg agreed. He also added that the stench was akin to that of onions mixed with the noxious smell emanating from his brother's bedroom.

But more than Regulus's overwhelming confidence and pride in his Slytherin placement, more so even than the smell of that stupid hat that has so much bearing over the fates of the students here at Hogwarts, I will remember Sirius's face. The day his younger brother, to whom he felt he had offered nothing but the best of guidance and sound advice, chose to follow the path Sirius had fought so vehemently to avoid. The smirk quickly fell from his face as he pressed his lips into a tight, disapproving line.

Sirius made that same face every time he breached the topic of "that Slytherin thing." And his belaboring of the subject only became more and more frequent. It bordered on obsessive. He wanted to, no, it was his DUTY as a brother, to do everything in his power to "save" Regulus (and eventually, myself as well), from becoming "one of _them._" We took Sirius's crusade in stride, at first. Then, eventually, anything and everything we did that Sirius didn't happen to approve of became a direct result of "the Slytherin thing."

We preferred coffee to pumpkin juice – Slytherin thing. We don't like cream OR sugar in our coffee? DOUBLE Slytherin points.

"Whaddyou _mean_ you don't like DADA?"

"I tend to fall down a lot, so I prefer more… stationary subjects."

"And my brother?"

"Well, he's pretty much good at everything, so he doesn't really… care. Creepy old Slughorn adores him, though, so I guess he prefers potions."

"Fuckin' Slytherin thing, man…"

And so on.

James immediately jumped on the "Slytherin thing" bandwagon – he only ever really seemed to tolerate Reg's presence out of loyalty to Sirius – and Peter, quick to jump on just about anything that James did, followed suit. It didn't take long before our clique split into two very distinct units.

Lily did her best facilitate peace, but with her over-achieving nature and unending mountains of schoolwork, she had plenty to worry about aside from our own petty squabbles. After the first broken nose, it quickly became habit for me to wait up in the dark common room for Reg to return from Quidditch practice, or detention, or whereever it was he might have been.

More often than I care to recall, he would come storming in, blood splattered all over his otherwise pristine, crisply pressed shirts. After hurling his jacket on the back of some innocent chair, he would circle the room with his dizzingly long strides, hands knotted into fists behind his back, and regale me with a tale of how James and Sirius, occasionally accompanied by Peter, had attacked him. For no apparent reason, other than the fact that they didn't like that he wore rings engraved with his family's crest on them. Or maybe the way he wore his hair (it _was_ always undeniably far more carefully dissheveled than James's, that's for sure). Or sometimes they'd just discovered a new curse and they wanted someone to try it out on (they typically sought out Severus for that one, but if he wasn't around, apparently Reg served as a sufficient back-up).

I'm not foolish enough to think Reg was entirely innocent. I know he wasn't. His caustic, belittling comments can eat away at even the most amicable of people. In fact, he's a pompous, egotistical prick, most of the time. I know that, too. And he's always known just the right ways to throw Sirius into one of his infamous rages with minimal effort. Bad combination. Reg isn't defenseless, either. He's smart and lithe, with reflexes honed from the years of Quidditch playing. I'm certain Sirius and James often left with battle wounds and battered egos of their own.

But, it wasn't them I waited up for. I didn't see them coming back bruised and bloodied. I didn't nurse their wounds, gently dabbing at them with some salve or soothing elixir that I'd just learned how to concot that night. I didn't see their faces twisting in pain; didn't feel the rough, raw, raised areas of their skin as I lightly ran my fingertips over their arms or down along their spines, searching for places that hurt. I wanted to fix them all, each and every one of them, even if the ones that weren't exactly visible.

After these attacks, Reg would always act nonplussed, properly dignified, properly uncaring. And he was a good actor, most of the time. But after awhile, his well-varnished, aloof exterior became impossible to maintain. And I was always there, ready and waiting to listen, soft cloth clutched in one hand, my potions or herbology textbook in the other.

"Why are they doing this?"

"I don't know." I frown, squinting at his back in the little dim, greenish light filtering into the room.

"He's supposed to be my _brother_. And it was his choice. He LEFT. He left us…"

"I know he did." I'm quiet, fixated on my work. Fixated on making the pain I can heal with just a simple potion go away.

"I mean, I… I get it. He's punishing me. For staying. For being loyal to my _family_, God forbid," he says, the disdainful sneer clearly audible in his voice now. He twists his torso around to look at me. "But I mean, it's… that doesn't explain… this." He gestures to his bloody shirt, now lying in a crumpled heap on the cold stone floor. "So, he lives somewhere else now. Nothing's CHANGED, really…"

I look up at him now. "Yes, it has, Reg. You've changed…"

"But they're not even nice to _you_ anymore," he interrupts me, a steely, dangerous edge to his voice now. The wounds quickly burying themselves deeper and deeper. No potion can fix this.

"That's because things _have_ changed. You're different, Sirius's different, I'm different." I sigh as the realization presses down on me, weighty, inevitable, unpleasant, and completely unavoidable. Everything's changing. We're not first years anymore. And life is rapidly becoming only infinitely more complicated.

"Everything's going to be different now." My voice is hushed, wistful. Almost reverent. My brief glimpse into my first comings of adulthood twists and expands before me. I'm staring down a corridor, long, dark and unexplored. Somewhere at the unseeable, unknowable end lies my future. Will I face it alone?

This short-lived moment of clarity is interrupted when I realize he's still looking at me. Studying the focused, worried expression on my face. I feel my neck get hot as blood rushes into my cheeks.

"You alright?" He smiles at me now. Esaily, effortlessly, just like everything else he decides to try his hand at.

"Yeah. Now shut up, and hold still."

He twists his long, white torso back around and to resume staring into the empty fireplace in front of him. He's quiet after that, lost in thought. He doesn't speak, but he doesn't have to. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking about the treacherous uncertainty before us. He's thinking about how things _are _changing. And he's wishing they didn't have to.

But of course, they did. All too quickly. An "us" and a "them" came to be: Regulus and myself on one side; Sirius, James, and Peter on the other; and Remus and Lily both standing somewhere closer to the middle.

Sometimes, when it's quiet, I close my eyes and remember. I remember way back when. Before the split. Before perceived differences and stripes on uniform ties and cloaks and pins made it impossible to remember the things we actually liked about eachother. Made it impossible to remember those careless, idle days _when_ we actually liked eachother.

Way back when. Back when all of us could always be found sitting beneath the strong, ancient branches of our favorite tree near the lake. Talking for hours, most often about nothing, nothing at all. The talking punctuated by laughing, joking, nudging, touching, perhaps the trading secrets and advice; the shattered physical demonstrations of our collective joy - the joy of our absolute togetherness. The thrill of cohesion, of belonging. Of having a group, a family, perhaps not one forged by blood, but one filled with people who would willingly do anything to keep you from hurt; protect you from unhappiness.

And all too abruptly, it ended.

Stupid me. Hopeful me. I actually thought it would last.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Hello, everyone! Hopefully, if you've managed to read this far, you're enjoying this, my first official foray into the vast realm that is Harry Potter fan fiction. If you've managed to make it through this far, I thought you might enjoy a bit of background information.

This story began as an vaguely coherent, insomnia-driven one-shot. Like most things I write, I never really intended for this to see the light of day. However, I kept poking and prodding at it, and simply couldn't leave it alone. The chapters just kept getting longer and longer, and what you're reading today is what I finally ended up with (after MANY hours of tedious editing and thinking).

Anyway, since I began writing this in a veritable state of delirium, it DOES contain a few things in it that makes it a bit-AUy. For example, the ages of Bellatrix and Narcissa in relation to Regulus. According to most timelines of the Black family that I've seen, Bellatrix is actually supposed to be TEN years older than Regulus, and I believe Narcissa is supposed to be about five years older, thus making it rather impossible for the two Black sisters to be at Hogwarts with Regulus at an age that makes sense for the events of this story. SO. Since I rather enjoyed writing Bella, and quite a few plans in mind for her, I decided to ignore canon and make Bella only a year older than Regulus and Narcissa. I don't think this is TOO much of a stretch, and I don't think it really alters things in a way that Bella or Narcissa will be outrageously OoC. And, frankly, it's a hell of a lot more fun to have all of those Blacks thrown together at Hogwarts at the same time.

Also, regarding incest: I know this is touchy subject for MANY people in the fanon. So, just FYI, I am not pro-incest, nor is this an incest-fic, in the sense that it will contain graphic depictions of sex between cousins or brothers and sisters, etc. That being said, there IS indeed TALK (and that's it) of cousins marrying cousins, and arranged marriages amongst the pureblood wizarding families. So, consider yourself warned.

I love Harry Potter (obviously), and I love all of these characters (even the ones I may seem to hate), and really hope that you'll enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

And... I'm done with the unnecessary rambling. Officially.


	3. Branches

**Chapter 3**

"_Ah me, all mine._

_Is it safe to say that we've waited patiently?_

_Call me on time,_

_And recall the tune that has placed us gracefully_

_All into line._

_There's a garden grave and a place they've saved for you._

_I'll fall by your side,_

_Though your silver-haired mama throws 'told you sos.'_

_We're laying in the shadow of your family tree,_

_Your haunted heart and me._

_Brought down by an old idea whose time has come._

_And in the shadow of the gallows of your family tree,_

_There's a hundred hearts or three,_

_Pumping blood to the roots of evil to keep it young."_

**[TV on the Radio/Family Tree]**

Somebody shoves past me, knocking me, quite literally, out of my reverie. I realize that I'd been staring, quite intently, at James, Sirius and Lily. I'm still standing there are the base of the stairs, one of my small hands gripping onto the railing. There's a bustling of activity that comes with the nearing end of the lunch? – yes, it looks like lunch – hour. Students are milling about, reluctantly standing, taking their time stuffing books and parchment and wands back into their school bags – anything to further delay their inevitable return back to their classrooms.

I stand there, frozen. Completely unsure of how to proceed. We haven't spoken in… I can't even remember, it's been so long. Not since the great Snape debacle. That's for sure. Lily hadn't known about that. One day, James somehow caught wind of Snape's undying, obsessive love for Lily Evans. Seriously, he must have been blind, not to have noticed before. Snape's devotion to that girl was etched painfully into his every movement when he was around her. An intensity of rebuffed longing – a desire for something he had been informed would never be.

Regardless of whether or not he knew about it before, there came a day when James decided he would tolerate Snape's obsession with Lily – HIS Lily, no longer. So it began, the plotting and the scheming. Sirius, sworn enemy of Severus Snape since the day they laid eyes on eachother, was the mastermind. I don't even remember how I found out, but I did. Their hunched backs and bowed heads curved toward one another in an attempt to protect their hushed whispers. I heard them. I couldn't believe what I was hearing – but I did. I told them they were sick, told them that they were morons, that they should just leave the kid _alone_.

"Naw," they laughed. "We just wanna scare him a little."

They told me to keep quiet. Told me to keep Lily in the dark – if she knew, all hell would break loose. I didn't. And they were right. It did. She ended it with James over it for a while – it wasn't just a stupid prank. He was smart enough to know the difference by now. James redeemed himself at the last moment by trying to put a stop to it – intervening before Remus could rip Snape to shreds. Reg rolled his eyes when he heard. Sirius stopped speaking to me, James too. Lily still wasn't speaking to Sirius. And from the looks of it, neither was Remus.

I catch a glimpse of his shaggy, sandy-colored hair as he walks past me, hands clenched tightly around the straps of his brown book bag, brow furrowed in concentration as he stares intently at the ground. He's walking too quickly to not be watching where he's going – one of the few actually eager to

return to his studies. There's a pang. A miniscule ache compared to the other behemoth I've been carrying around with me inside my chest all morning, but strong enough that I feel it. I miss him.

Suddenly, there's a pretty mass of soft red hair in front of me. I take a quick, shocked breath, inhaling a pleasant mouthful of Lily's unmistakable scent. Floral, with a hint of sweetness. Gardenias and vanilla, maybe. Another pang. I'd missed her, too.

"Hey…" Her words are careful, cautious. She's looking at me the way she might look at an ill-tempered beast in a cage - like I might snap at her and take a limb off at any second. I can't say I blame her. My sleep-heavy eyes are slow to move in my head as a shift my gaze to her. I attempt a smile, but I'm fairly certain I can't pull off much more than a contorted curvature of the lips at this point. It most certainly doesn't reach my eyes.

"Hey." She repeats herself this time, more to make sure I'm actually paying attention – hearing the words she's so kindly speaking to me.

"Are… are you alright? You weren't in class, and… nobody'd seen you. I was worried."

Another pause. Am I supposed to say something? I give moving my tongue a try; it's still glued to the roof of my mouth. Completely unwilling to cooperate. God, Evie, _say_ _something._

She starts again, "When you didn't show, I… well, I sort of asked…"

Finally, she cuts to the heart of it.

"I heard what happened." She gives a sort of shrug of her small shoulders, and swings her chin in the direction of the Slytherin table – something I'd mercifully managed to avoid looking at until this moment.

He's impossible to miss; standing heads taller than anyone else around him. _She's_ there of course, tossing her brambles of twisted black hair this way and that, practically quivering with the delight of her imagined triumph. Over me, over him. I don't know what she's so smug about. This is how it's _supposed_ to be, anyway. She reminded me of that every chance she got. He had, too. Whether he knew it at the time, or not.

"We'll never be able to tell Mother about this, you know." He easily envelops one of my comically undersized hands within his own. I make a face of disapproval. I'm not sure if he saw it. He's too busy gazing at our intertwined fingers and palms, marveling at the shape they create. Pale flesh on pale – mine tinged with hints of pink, his more greenish-gray. Like he was genetically pre-dispositioned to coordinate exactly with the colors of our Slytherin uniforms. I wouldn't put it past her, either. Walburga. Or, "The Burg," as Sirius calls her. Anything for her "perfect" son. The one who would never leave her.

After Sirius rejected his role of crowned Prince of the Noble House of Black, the burden of each and every one of Walburga's heavy expectations fell upon Regulus's shoulders – a responsibility he took _very_ seriously. He described it to me once, the day she came to him. She sat him down, took his hands, already well refined from the years of piano lessons, within her own bejeweled, thick fingers, and explained to this ten-year-old boy how it was all up to _him_ now.

"You're all I have left, now, son," she told him. Then, she leaned in and pressed her lips, withered from years of venomous, disapproving frowns – most of them directed toward Sirius – against his smooth, bewildered forehead. A mother's kiss – one that would prove to be the kiss of death for Sirius and Regulus's relationship.

I had never met the woman. I still haven't. But I don't have to. I can see her so clearly in my mind. Large, bulbous in all the wrong places; draped in full sheaths of the most expensive of fabrics, each one a varying hue of the same base shade of putrid green. Painted red lips; gaudy baubles and tassels abound – completing the effect of the woman looking like a large, flagrant Christmas tree gone horribly, _horribly_ wrong. No, I've never met her, and I don't have to. I don't have to meet her to know that I'd absolutely despise her.

Because, I already do. I hate her. I hate her for each and every outrageous demand shrieked at Regulus.; for every insult spat in Sirius's face. For the rows of the severed house elves brazenly mounted along the hallways in her home. For making me, a girl she's never met feel _unworthy_ of her son. For the piles of hideous, brassy gold jewelry stuffed with glittering green rows of teardrop emeralds – jewelry she would absolutely adore to see dangling from the skinny throat of Bellatrix Lestrange. The very girl who everybody knows is the one who's _supposed_ to marry her prized son – the crowned Prince of the Most Noblest House of Black.

Yes, after Sirius left, Regulus inherited _all_ of the familial obligations, including perpetuating the purity of the Black bloodline. Nevermind the fact that they're cousins. Nevermind the fact that she's older. Nevermind the fact that they have nothing in common. Nothing but a name. But, apparently, that should be enough. And so, the arrangements were made. A date was set. And the ancient, arcane tradition carries on. Only The Burg could be crazy enough to believe that mating with blood-thirsty, sociopathic Bella could in any way be "pure." _They're_ perfect for each other. Bell-UH and The Burg. Two of a kind. Both of them cut and patterned from the same sadistic cloth.

So, there it was. The inevitability of Regulus and Bella's matrimony, staring me in the face, big, wild and black, like the irises of my beloved's intended's eyes. It was always there, hovering and lingering in one of those adamantly unspoken of areas of my mind. But it was there. Nevertheless. Tinting and tarnishing any foolishly happy thought of our imagined future together that managed to bubble up in my idle thoughts, and momentarily unguarded daydreams.

But that's me. Stupid me. Staring this living, breathing, undeniably _real_ obstacle to our relationship – just one of many, even – and ignoring it. Hoping everything would turn out for the best. Closing my eyes, turning my head, selectively blinding myself to it. Constantly telling myself, "it'll all work out; it'll all be okay." And then, his lips would reassure me, assuaging all of my doubts with kisses and softly spoken words and promises; even though everyone else around me was screaming (sometimes literally) to the contrary.

"You're a fucking _idiot_ if you think he's ever gonna go against what his precious Mummy says." Sirius thrusts the potato dangling at the end of his fork, speckled, red, and dripping with gravy, into my face. You could always count on Sirius not to mince words.

"Besides-" he shoves the ill-fortuned potato, along with a sizable hunk of roast into his mouth, "it's not like it's ever gonna go anywhere, since he's a fag and all." He swallows noisily, ending any further discussion of the subject. I look at my own plate, feeling nauseous. Not because of Sirius's tendency to shovel as much food into his face as humanly possible, but because I know he's right. About the first part, anyway.

I knew I could rely on Lily, beautiful, brainy Lily, to provide me with slightly more well-reasoned, rational advice.

"Evie." She sighs as she strides up and down the rows of the DADA classroom, setting cages of hinkypunks in the center of each long, battle-scarred table. I follow behind her, marveling at the fact that Dumbledore hasn't just added her to the payroll yet.

"The Burg's never going to change her mind about the Bell-UH thing. You _know_ she's not. And Reg never goes against anything she says. And I know you say that it doesn't _bother_ you, that you're too young to worry about marriage, etcetera, etcetera…" She stops suddenly to investigate a book on one of the shelves lining the room that's apparently out of place. I nearly slam into her. Coordination has never been my strong point. She turns around to look up at me.

"But I know _you_, Evie, and I know that it's going to make you absolutely crazy – not getting what you want. You _always_ have to get what you want. And besides…" She cocks her head to the side, studying the irritated face I know I'm making before continuing, "Evie, this is Bell-UH we're talking about, here. She'll probably try and off you in your sleep, or something." She re-alphabetizes a few more books before resuming her harried rounds of straightening, cleaning and organizing. I sigh, and fall into step behind her. You could always count on Lily to be right. About… well, pretty much everything.

And then, there was James. I find him outside, flanked by Peter, pacing back and forth, studying the Quidditch play schematics he has clutched in one hand. He's always in motion, James Potter. I glance down at Remus, James's opposite in so many ways, as he sits, serene and still, a large book propped up against his knees. His quill hovers above a piece of parchment resting on the grass beside him, dutifully awaiting the slight wave of Remus's wand that sends it into a frenzied bout of note taking.

A soft, warm breeze works its way across the quiet grounds, only adding to the widely copied, but never fully duplicated, rumpled effect of James's hair. I breathe deeply, grateful for the momentary warmth of the sun. I'm so accustomed to the frigid temperatures of the dungeons.

"Evie." James looks at me, aghast. Like I just asked him if I should chuck his broomstick at the Whomping Willow. "The guy wears _scarves_."

I stare at him.

Exasperated at my failure to immediately understand the validity his point, he adds, "When it's not even _cold_ outside, for fuck's sake."

James Potter. Sage, all knowing, perpetual-purveyor of wisdom. You could always count on him to provide the soundest, most thoughtful advice of all. After rolling my eyes so hard I'm afraid I might strain something, I look to Remus. Desperate for at least ONE person to say something I want to hear. Instead, I hear Peter muttering to James, "Totally a valid point, mate." James claps Peter on the back loudly and heartily before climbing back to his feet and resuming his pacing. I want to smack the both of them.

Remus finally looks up from his book. "I think you should just…. Do… do what makes you happy."

I smile at him. He smiles in return before flipping a page in his massive book and flicking his wand. The gentle scratching sounds of Remus's quill attacking the parchment join the crunching sounds of trampled grass under the heavy footfalls of James's Quidditch boots.

And so I did. And I was. Happy. Blissfully, irritatingly, deliriously happy. For nearly the two whole years that we were together. But now…? I wince. I feel my hand wrapping itself around the cool fabric of my wrinkled, white button-down shirt. It's too much. Too soon. Remembering. The laughing, the inside jokes; mocking anyone and everyone around us. The clutching, the grabbing and the kissing. That unmistakable sensation of his fingers cinching around my waist. The poking, the prodding, the pushing of buttons. The incredulous, raised eyebrows, tiptoeing through silent hallways to each other's dormitories. All of it.

Stupid me. Crowned princess of naivety. I thought that would last, too.


	4. Ashes

Chapter 4

Ashes.

"_Well, you've got your diamonds_

_And you've got your pretty clothes_

_And the chauffeur drives your cart, _

_You let everybody know._

_But don't play with me, 'cause you're playin' with fire._

_Now, you've got some diamonds_

_And you will have some others_

_But you'd better watch your step, boy_

_Or start livin' with your mother._

_So don't you play with me,_

'_Cause you're playin' with fire."_

**[The Rolling Stones/Play With Fire]**

He's staring at me now. I feel it long before I actually raise my eyes to meet his. For that moment, nothing else exists. The students chattering about essays, exams and _expelliarmus_; Lily, still standing in front of me, undoubtedly growing more impatient by the second – none of it. I should look away. I should turn, walk as far as my wary legs can manage, and never look back. But… I can't. My gaze is locked into his, unblinking, unwavering, but at the same time, I'm searching. Struggling to understand. To comprehend. The eyes are still the same - large, round, gray; tugged down at the outer corners by some invisible, ultimately unfathomable sadness. But now, the thoughts behind them are a complete mystery to me.

"Evie!" Lily's own bright, penetrating green eyes turn to see what I'm looking at. "Ohhhh, no you don't." She gives Regulus a sneer laced with the appropriate level of disgust for the boy who just broke her (former?) best friend into bits.

"Come on." She latches onto my sleeve and pulls me along, off the stairs, away from the Great Hall. My head whips around to follow the direction my body. My mind frantically struggles to find the appropriate expression of gratitude.

"Thanks." I'm shocked by the sound of my own voice. It doesn't sound like me at all. It sounds rough, raw, broken. It sounds like I've been crying for days, which, I guess isn't so far from the truth.

Lily glances over at me as she steers me briskly down the halls, deftly side-stepping a gaggle of gawking first years as she goes. "What're you thanking me for?"

"For… getting me out of there, I guess."

"Oh." She sets her narrow jaw into a disapproving frown as she walks. The same one she wears whenever she hears something she doesn't like the sound of. "Don't mention it."

She continues weaving her way through the hallways and amongst the throngs of students all the way down to the dungeons. Even though we haven't spoken since… God knows when, even though she receives top marks on every single one of her homework assignments – even though she has the largest course load of anyone else (Remus following at a close second) in this school, Lily Evans still somehow managed to remember that I have double potions on Fridays. I want to throw my arms around her neck and kiss the gentle, dignified curves of her cheekbones.

Somehow, in spite of the stunned state of silence I'd been trapped in for the past few days, in spite of the relentless buzz of daily life that continuously permeates the scattered scraps of withered thoughts constantly blowing through our minds, she'd managed to hear it. The stopping of my heart. The sound of my dizzying, silent fall.

And she'd come to my rescue. Taken my hand and pulled me up, up from the floor, back on to my feet – unsteady as they may be. Because, that's what best friends are for. And I would do just the same for her. But Lily so rarely stumbles, much less falls.

I watch her as she chats animatedly with some younger student, a Hufflepuff. Probably one of the ones she tutors without fail every Monday and Wednesday evening. Her hair hugs the contours of her long, slender face as she speaks, wafting downward toward the middle of her back in gentle waves and ringlets. The Hufflepuff stands there, slack-jawed and dumbstruck (not an uncommon condition for most Hufflepuffs), as his protuberant eyes flit back and forth between the movements of her full, sloping lips, and the dance of her dewy, petal-pink fingernails while she demonstrates the proper wand-motion for a successful shield charm. Self-conscious, I attempt to adjust the hem of my comparatively unkempt uniform.

I am at once envious, and spellbound. Lily doesn't need a wand for people to become completely enchanted with her. See one, James Potter. The ultimate playboy. The proverbial bachelor. Owner of a gleaming, magnetic grin, one tailor-made to grace the glossy covers of _Witch Weekly_ and _Which Warlock_. James would strut around the school, Sirius so often at his side, effortlessly charming his way through his already charmed existence. His only cares in life were those Quidditch matches in which he almost _always_ led the Gryffindor team to staggeringly defeat whatever poor, unfortunate team was slotted to play them that week. Simultaneously maintaining his credibility as one of the youngest Quidditch captains in Hogwarts history, and cementing his celebrity (and inherent crushability) at this school.

Yes, all the girls adored him. (Still do.) All the girls except one, Lily Evans. Fiercely competitive on and off the Quidditch pitch, James was never one to flee from a challenge. And so, the hunt began. Countless bouquets of exotic flowers and plants, massive gift baskets stuffed with every sweet Honeydukes carries; shamelessly elaborate invitations to any and every school dance, feast, soiree, and gala. Each and every one of these things Lily would turn down without so much as batting a single one of the eyelashes surrounding her large, doe-like eyes.

"Insufferable," she called him. But the suppressed, sweet smile that always managed to sneak out from behind her tart words led me to think otherwise.

"Lily, you're in love with the idiot. You might as well just admit it. Because… I'm all for watching James make a fool of himself and everything, but… even _I _think it's starting to get a little old." I bat away one of the blinking, heart-shaped crimson balloons flashing the words, "Go 2 the dance with me, Lils," in sweeping, love-struck gold script. This wasn't the first time Lily and I had arrived at our usual spots at the breakfast table to find some declaration of James's love there, awaiting our arrival.

Those harmless bunches of balloons were tame in comparison to most of his displays – the most dangerous one being the time he'd sent his broomstick rocketing toward us in an attempt to sweep Lily, literally, off her feet to some secret picnic he'd planned. Lily never made it. She dove out of the way, pulling me down with her, while the renegade broom slammed into the wall behind us with a distinctly satisfying _crunch _(something Lily and I would both find incredibly amusing much, much later).

She stabs at her cereal with her spoon, taking out her frustrations with James and with herself on some bystanding bran flakes. "I guess it wouldn't kill me to go to _one_ dance with him." She pauses, probably remembering the epic failure of the rocketing broomstick abduction attempt. "Or, maybe it will."

"Lily," I'm rolling my eyes now, "seriously, just… GO with him. For all our sakes."

"FINE. I'll go." She sighs; contemplating the now milk-sodden brown bits of cereal left drifting aimlessly about her bowl. She looks up at me. "He's… _all_ wrong for me, you know."

I nod, letting her have this final, last-ditch attempt at verbally denying the irrepressible infatuation she and James had for one another. All she had left were these tiny battles with her pride, the final, feeble rallies of rationality against the maddening, infuriatingly incomprehensible endeavors of our hearts (something which, I knew all too much about by that point).

Because, she was right. Lily and James _are _wrong for each other. In every conceivable way. Lily's studious, often times rigidly structured demeanor and lifestyle clash dramatically with James's manic, uncontainable excitement and energy. Even on his best days, James is gently misogynistic ("noble", as he calls it), still stubbornly clinging to the outdated notion that witches should spend their days at home honing their domestic spellwork skills. Lily, Head Girl, brilliant, industrious, and tirelessly hard-working, clearly wasn't going to wile away her hours enchanting knitting needles to embroider cats, dragons, and Gryffindor crests on every available surface in their future home.

Lily is careful, caring, and understanding; James brash, brawny, and pig-headed. Yes, they were all wrong for each other. Which is precisely why, to this day, they still drive each other absolutely crazy, and are still absolutely crazy about each other.

Perhaps it's a simple a case of the magnetic pull of opposites (combined with my threats to hex James in so many ways so that it would be excruciatingly painful for him to even _think_ about sitting on a broom again), but James defied everyone's expectations. He never roved or strayed. In fact, he proved to be the most dutiful and doting boyfriend anyone could hope for. And James and Lily's adoration for one another is sickeningly apparent to anyone who spends any length of time around them. Lily has learned to laugh about the things she once scoffed at, and James, a playboy no longer, has eyes for no one but her. And, looking at her now, alongside this open-mouthed Hufflepuff, it's easy for me to see why. It's impossible _not_ to love her.

She turns to me, leaving the dazzled third-year in her wake. "Look, I have to go, but…" She trails off as her eyes follow the languid movements of Regulus, flanked by Bella, followed by Narcissa, and a few others as they lazily stroll into the potions classroom. Bringing up the rear is Severus, his oil-slick eyes focused unblinkingly on Lily as he skulks by. She shakes off the severity of Severus's stare before adding, "I'll meet you. Right here, after class, alright? Wait for me."

I nod, catching a glimpse of Slughorn's velveteen, walrus-like shape ambling about in front of his desk. No more stalling. Class is about to start. I can no longer put it off – entering the snake pit, so to speak. Being mere feet away from him, and deflecting all the smug, satisfied stares hurled in my direction. I tear at the skin around my cuticles in an unshakeable fit of anxiety. I only look up when I notice Lily's stockinged ankles still standing in front of me. She's watching me. Her face filled with concern; she's chewing on her lower lip with worry. Christ, am I really that pathetic? Pull it _together_, Evie.

"Lily, I'm FINE. Seriously. Go to class – you can't stand being late. And if Slughorn catches sight of you out here, you'll never be able to escape." I manage a smile at her.

She studies me, her eyes still rightfully dubious. "Alright. But don't you even _think_ about skiving off after I leave."

"Yes, mother."

She gives me a hearty shove toward the entrance of the potions classroom before she goes. I stare up at the rows and rows of tables stacked with cauldrons, the light cracklings of the tiny fires burning beneath them punctuating the low murmurings of my classmates awaiting Slughorn's instructions. Breathe, Evie. Just… breathe. I step over the threshold, one foot lightly placed in front of the other, like I'm testing the frozen surface of the Great Lake for patches of thin ice. Like the floor will rebel against any sort of known law of physics, and just open up beneath my feet. Swallow me down, swallow me whole. I would kill for an invisibility cloak right now. To be able to slink up to my seat, completely unnoticed. Untouched, unharmed, and unseen.

But of course, Horace Slughorn is _no_ fan of invisibility.

"Ah! Miss Everheart! So good of you to join us! As you can see we've paired up into the partners we were concocting the Polyjuice Potion with last session – which should be congealing nicely right about now, so if you wouldn't mind joining Mr. Black up there, we can be on our way…"

His booming, bombastic speech barrages me with its falsely welcoming tones. I flinch when he says my name, flinch at the utterly unwelcomed bit of recognition. I glance up once again toward the tables, really seeing them for the first time. Really seeing the faces associated with the monochrome rows of cloaked students staring, or glaring, in Bell-UH's case, down at me. Partners. We were partners. Of course we were, we're _always_ partners. Slughorn's behind his desk now, swaying back and forth in front of the chalkboard as he scrawls out the instructions for the rest of the class period; either uncaring or unaware of the gentle swishing sound his voluptuous, violet belly makes as it brushes against its surface.

You son of a bitch, Slughorn. I'm sure he's heard about our breakup by now. Horace cannot be contained from the viral nature of Hogwarts gossip, not that he wants to be. He revels in living vicariously through the exploits of his younger, prettier students - especially those of his prized Slytherins. Regulus is one of the finest jewels in Slughorn's collection of dazzling specimens of student bodies destined for prosperity. Infinitely well-connected, born into one of the most ancient and noblest wizarding families, seeker of the Slytherin quidditch team, _and _he's great at potions? The man practically wets himself every time Reg steps into his classroom.

I, on the other hand, tend to make things bubble, burst, boil over and outright explode whenever I start chopping them into bits and throwing them into cauldrons. My academic strengths tend to lie in the realms of History of Magic and Muggle Studies – lots of writing, thinking, and philosophizing. Nothing sharp, nothing toxic, nothing flammable. These are both noble subjects, to be sure, but both lacking the drama and flair Slughorn so adores. I get decent marks; I easily passed my O.W.L.S., even receiving a handful of Os in the process. I'm not much for extracurricular socialization – I prefer to spend my time alone or with few my closest friends, reading, lounging about; discovering new and inventive methods of procrastination.

Clearly, not the most stellar choice for chief wife of the reigning-king of the Slugclub Slughorn undoubtedly hoped Regulus would choose. (For awhile I thought Horace and The Burg were secretly involved in some sort of co-conspiratorial plot to split us up. There isn't clear evidence either way, as of yet.)

I glare at the back of Slughorn's rounded shoulders – Head of House, be damned. I'm sure he's already gathered a lovely selection of witches to audition for the coveted role of my replacement – graceful, refined creatures, smooth and pristine. All kneecaps and unending lengths of pliable, willowy limbs; swaying gently in the breezes of commonality and acceptability. Well-practiced, plasticine smiles, never once betraying a moment's unhappiness or even the slightest shade of discontent. All perfectly pleasant, perfectly forgettable distractions until the ready-made domestic bliss – a hallmark of all arranged marriages, no doubt – kicks in after Regulus's commencement next year.

As much as I abhor his gossiping, good-natured sycophancy, Slughorn's poorly masked dislike of Bellatrix always manages to win him points in my favor. Well, it's not so much dislike. He's more terrified of her than anything. And he's not the only one. Plenty of students, professors, and house elves, especially, cower in her wake as she careens through the halls, her matted black mass of tumbleweed curls trailing behind her. There isn't any one thing that's particularly frightening about her. Nothing you place, nothing you can put your finger on. And that's precisely what's so terrifying.

There's just this slight scorching of malice branded upon the darkened hide blanketing everything she does, wrapped around her internal squalor, warping and contorting itself to shield her demented whims from view – she is unknowable to anyone with even the faintest glimmer of compassion. Uncontainable and unpredictable, she weaves her way through life with the trajectory of a drunken hurricane, but noticeably lacking the calm internal eye at the inner heart of her storm. Certain in only her chaotic uncertainty – if you go left, she's destined to slither right.

If you ever make the mistake of looking into the flat, absorbent circles of her eyes, it's like she's looking directly through you. Like she doesn't see the living, breathing, beating mass of flesh and heart and blood standing in front of her. It's unsettling, to say the least. And certainly not something you'd want to inflict upon hordes of happy guests at your Christmas parties. Thus, Bella's name never managed to find its way to the list of Slughorn's chosen few, much less the roster of invitees to his frequent festivities.

This small semblance of commonality isn't enough to prevent me from silently cursing him one final time. I hitch my bag over my shoulder and begin the long journey toward where I know Regulus is standing – our normal seats at the table closest to the back wall of the room. I drop my bag on the floor once I reach the table, _our_ table, wondering if the thunderous _thud_ is really that loud, or merely amplified by my momentarily excitable imagination. I refuse to look at him. I can't. I _won't_. I don't have my book. Shit. Slowly, reluctantly, I tilt my head back. My eyes search onward and upward, all the way until they find his face, fully taking him in for the first time since that night I'd much rather not recall.

I nearly do a double-take. He looks… tired. But… tired doesn't even begin to cover it. He looks haggard. Weary. He looks… _old_. Like he's lived through about fifty mid-life crises in the few days since I last saw him. His eyes are dark, shrouded in puffy sweaters of sleepless, purple bruises, the slant of his smug smile completely vanished from the serpentine slits of his mouth. He looks terrible. Beautiful, tragic, and his hair's still fantastic, of course, but… terrible. For the briefest of seconds, I feel sorry for him. Until I remember that I despise him. We continue to stare at each other, neither of us willing to be the one to beckon any further awkwardness to our table by actually speaking.

He opens his mouth. I shake my head. "Look, you don't have to say anything. I'm sure the potion's perfect, since they always are, and if you just let me put my name on it, we can get this over with, and this piece of shit year will be _over_, and we won't have to worry about being partners again." Breathe, Evie. Remember? The breathing thing? I stare intently at the ash-covered coals glowing orange through gray as they fume beneath the suspended, rounded bottom of our… _his_ cauldron. I can't bring myself to look at his face anymore. To see the relief I'm so certain is spreading across his features. "Besides, I… forgot my book," I finish lamely.

He retrieves something from the black leather book bag (man-purse, satchel, whatever) sitting on the chair beside him. He bends at his knees, ducking down so he can hold a sample vial in front of my now stubbornly downward focused gaze: a small bottle, with a fat little cork straining against the confines of the lips at the top of its neck. There's a label neatly placed in the middle bearing his initials (which he's always been so fond of scrawling over everything he owns), "R.A.B.". Below them, lies my name in all of its alliterous, cumbersome entirety: Evelyn Estlin Everheart. His unmistakable script is tight and tidy, pretentious and exclusionary in the meticulous interconnectedness of each perfectly formed letter. I swallow, struggling to understand why he chose _this _particular moment to not be a complete asshole. "Why'd you put my full name on there? You know I hate it."

He shrugs, running the tip of his index finger along the inked trajectory of my name and his initials. For a moment, his face is taut, drawn; almost pained. "I like your name." His face goes blank as his gaze shifts beyond the bottle; off toward something I'm incapable of seeing. I hate it. I hate this. This distance between us, this rift that's suddenly ruptured into a gnarled, scraggled canyon of secrets and misgivings. I hate how calm he is, with his tiny little bottle – all neatly labeled and safely stoppered up. I hate the cool, glassy expression on his face. When I can barely breathe. Being near him. I hate his height, his unfettered tallness, while I feel like I'm continually shrinking, diminishing. Slowly fading. The lights behind my eyes slowly being snuffed out, one by one.

I want to grab him. Shake him, shove him against the wall. Scream at him a barrage of obscenities that would make even Filch blush; demand that he tell me what he's thinking. But I don't. Instead, I mumble, "Thanks."

I'm not sure if he heard me. He continues on, his stream of thought apparently unbroken. "The potion's finished. It's fine – I already tested it. I was only waiting for you to get here. So…" He struggles with his words, "So we could turn it in. Together."

"Why? It's not like Slughorn doesn't know you do all the work, anyway."

He squirms. He's uncomfortable, now. He's never uncomfortable. What the _hell _is going on? I know break-ups, no matter how "mutual" both parties claim them to be, spell death to all hope of immediate friendship, but he's speaking to me as if he barely knows me. As if he hasn't known me in the most intimate ways possible _to_ know someone. Sure, I'm angry. But I get to be. _He _ended it. He runs his long fingers through his chicory-colored hair, briefly clutching it toward the ends. The ultimate testament to his nervousness. Why does _he _get to be nervous? This is all his fault, anyway.

"I just… wanted to do the… right thing, I guess."

Well. That's wonderful. Apparently he'd been drinking some of James's heavily spiked nobility juice in our brief time apart. Regulus Black, one of the most self-absorbed, self-serving people I'd ever met, was suddenly concerned with doing what was "right." I can feel the anger bubbling beneath my skin. My ears start to burn. Yes, I'm angry now, and it's delightful. Frankly, it's a welcome relief to the frozen state of misery and self-pity I'd been wallowing in. There's a fire burning at the center of my chest, one where the gaping, aching emptiness used to be. A fire that's causing my blood to boil. I decide to go with it; fan the flames.

"Well, that's great, Reg. Really. Thanks. But you broke UP with me, remember? I'm not your _responsibility_ anymore. So don't waste any of your precious time worrying about doing the 'right' thing by me anymore, alright?"

I don't give him the opportunity to respond. I immediately grab whatever book happens to be in my bag and begin to read. I feel invigorated, pleased with my performance. I let the heat of this newly discovered indignation spread through my veins, ensnaring me with the lassoing warmth of self-righteousness. I feel his body shift as he collapses onto the stool next to mine. I hear him mutter, "_aguamenti,"_ to douse the embers beneath our cauldron, but I don't see. I don't look. I spend the remainder of class staring doggedly downward at my book. I'm through looking up. Or, that's what I tell myself, anyway.

When it's finally time to leave, I jump to my feet, knocking my knees against the edge of the table in my eagerness to escape. To make a swift get-away from his suffocating presence. I hurry down to the front of the classroom, where I can see Lily is already waiting for me. She's standing next to Slughorn's desk, talking to him about candy or brandy or something, no doubt, as he erases the instructions he labored over for so long at the beginning of class. Slughorn's face is radiating delight as he works, the same way it always does when he's talking to Lily. And, I'm pretty sure that today, at this moment, I look just as delighted to see her as he does. When I reach her, once again, I have to restrain myself from throwing my arms around her in a grateful, exuberant (as exuberant as I can get, anyway) hug.

"I'll do my best, Professor, but I really don't think I'll have time! I have N.E.W.T.S. to study for, a graduation ceremony to plan, not to mention my regular Head Girl duties, _and_ my tutoring…"

"Now, now, Lily, I know you're busy, but I'm simply just going to have to _demand_ that you come to my little pre-graduation party! Especially since you'll be _leaving_ me this year. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't know you'd had a proper send-off." Slughorn turns his beaming face toward us now; brushing white clouds of chalk dust off his belly as he does so. His puffy moustache, the color of faded parchment scrolls, rumples beneath his nose as he takes notice of me for the first time. "Miss Everheart, I'm leaving it up to _you_ to make sure this busy bee of ours attends my party, you hear?"

"Er… what? …Sir?" I glance at Lily, silently willing her to clue me in on what I had just walked into. I had never been a member of the Slugclub, and the only parties I'd ever attended were as Regulus's date. I certainly didn't have Slughorn's extensive social calendar memorized. But, judging by the way he's looking at me, apparently I should have.

"My graduation party, dear girl, my pre-commencement celebration! It'll be the largest event of the year, aside from my Christmas gala, of course. Surely you must have received your invitation by now."

"No, actually, I…"

He interrupts me with a fluttering wave of his stubby hand. "Yes, yes, well, nevermind that now." He rummages through the contents of his desk for a moment before thrusting an invitation toward my face. I warily reach for the vibrant green and silver embossed envelope, but Slughorn quickly jerks it away. Like I'd been positively desperate to get my hands on the thing in the first place.

"Now, Miss Everheart, I'll give you this on ONE condition." He smiles his most indulgent of smiles, the kind people generally reserve for five year olds and their most beloved pets. "Make sure that this girl here," he jabs a stump of a finger at Lily, "is in attendance. Preferably without that boyfriend of hers!" He forces the invitation into my hand before leaning back to chuckle at his own cheek. I give Lily my best, "Can we go yet?" eyes. Incredibly, unbelievably, she's still standing there, relaxed, happy, and smiling. I don't know how she does it.

"Alright," Lily laughs, "I'll go. _If_ there's time…"

Lily trails off when she's abruptly interrupted by a flashing of cufflinks. One of Reg's arms reaches in front of my face to deposit our Polyjuice sample on Slughorn's desk. I don't know if he's looking at me. I don't care. Because, I'm _certainly_ not looking at him. Slughorn's mouth drops open, but before he can utter even a single syllable of praise, Reg breezes past the three of us, and out the door of the classroom. There's a brief, heavy moment of silence. I _know_ both Slughorn and Lily are looking at me now.

"Er… just one more thing, Miss Everheart…"

I grit my teeth. Bracing myself for some comment I already know I don't want to hear.

"If… if you _do_ come, perhaps you should, ah… bring a date."

I crumple the smug, overstuffed invitation in my otherwise ineffectual fist.

He must be able to see the rage, fueled by my newly discovered fires of anger pouring out through my eyes, because with a few sputters, coughs, and jacket straightenings, he's gone. Retreated back into his over-sized office.

I'm moving again. Pulled along at the sleeve by Lily. I don't know where she's taking me. The fire's roared into a blaze now, burning hot, blazing bright, and it's all I see. I won't let them win. Slughorn. The Burg. Bell-UH. I can't. I won't. I won't fade out, I won't disappear. I'll go to his graduation party, and I'll have a _fabulous_ time. And if I can manage to make a few of the lives of my self-proclaimed enemies miserable in the process, then that's just a perk.

This one's for you, Slughorn. You son of a bitch. If I'm going up in flames, then you will, too.

Except.

I'll be the one who's rising from the ashes.


	5. The Wind

**Chapter 5**

**The Wind.**

"_Oh, the time will come up,_

_When the winds will stop,_

_And the breeze will cease to be breathin'._

_Like the stillness in the wind_

_Before the hurricane begins,_

_The hour that the ship comes in._

_And the sea will split_

_And the ships will hit_

_And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking._

_And the tide will sound_

_And the waves will pound_

_And the mornin' will be a breakin'."_

**[Bob Dylan/When the Ship Comes in]**

Slowly, miraculously, Time passes. They say it heals things, Time. Cures all wounds. Makes things we once thought to be unbearable, our ultimate undoings, fade away amongst the expanses of things long forgotten. Gaping wounds disappear, sink into scars, become buried beneath hard fought growth and renewal, blanketed, covered; tucked safely away by fresh new layers of thin coatings of skin. The once fresh, clear-cut lines drawing the roadmaps of our weary journeys and personal tragedies blur into indistinctiveness, from violent red, to shadowy purple remains, to blossoming, regenerative green; until finally, at long last, they merge into uniformity. They become a part of us, less distinguishable than any other mole, pock, mark or freckle dotting our bodies.

But they are always there. They never disappear completely. They're just less noticeable, that's all. They become muted, dampened; shielded, and surrounded by each protective particle of sand that slowly trickles through the hourglass. But still, they remain. Waiting, practically begging to be ripped open again. Waiting for the right person to come along and tug at the strings that once so artfully tied you together. Sure, it gets easier, eventually. Picking up the pieces, reforging the splintered fragments of ourselves back together again.

That's what I did. Somehow. I fell into new patterns, waltzed through my days in time to unfamiliar, truncated rhythms. I avoided places I once frequented, the common room, for one, and replaced them with others. Each morning, evening, or afternoon, I would glide through, ignoring the long, rigid bodies lounging statuesquely on couches and chairs, against walls and tables. But that's all they were – bodies. Not names, not people, not him. Cat-calls and unintelligible mockeries would follow me through to the doorway, until I stepped safely through, the door sliding resolutely shut behind me. Afterward, I would grip at the fabric of my shirt – sometimes white, sometimes black or heathered gray - and the layers of skin below it. Still there, still unbroken. No, not thick, but certainly enough to hold me together.

I don't sit at their table anymore. Instead, every morning, I plop my groggy, sleep and coffee deprived self down with the golden children of the Gryffindor table. A shock of green amongst the thriving crests of crimson and gold. I don't sleep much; I'm generally the first to arrive. Remus is next, always arriving promptly at seven, his copy of The Prophet tucked primly beneath his arm.

Remus and I easily fell back into the previously established boundaries of our relationship. He had always been guarded, but these days, he clung even more tightly to his thoughts than I remembered. Not that I blame him. I could only imagine the intense betrayal he felt when Sirius and James decided to exploit the secret of his lycanthropy for their own petty, vengeful ends. It's not a secret any longer. We all know, and then some. When I see him, I'm always yanked from the depths of my self-pity. I want to tell him how sorry I am. That I don't care what he is – that James and Sirius are reckless idiots, and that he deserves better. But, I don't. I don't know how. The words never find me. I guess he's not the only guarded one. He sits down across from me, crunching his toast and the pages of his paper.

I sip my coffee.

His clear brown eyes, flecked with freckles of gold, catch the early rays of the sun's morning light as they dart back and forth, reading the day's headlines. It's quiet, peaceful. Small handfuls of students line the various house tables, stretching and yawning away the stiffness of sleep. The familiar scents of Hogwarts breakfast weave their way through the air, in and out between and around the waves of white, unlit candles drifting slowly, up, up, down - and always back up again. Warm sausages, rolls, strips of bacon, eggs, and more bacon, for good measure. All piled in teetering towers on platters running the lengths of the glistening brown tables, occasionally punctuated by basins of breakfast cereals. Reg always lamented the quality of Hogwarts cooking; claiming Kreacher's to be far superior. Far less meat. I wouldn't know. I'd never exactly been asked over for dinner. I guess now I would never be.

I sip my coffee.

Remus folds his paper in half, his perpetually crinkled forehead more deeply lined than usual. "There's been another abduction." I frown. It seems there's always "another abduction," these days. "Who?"

"Some Muggle family. Apparently, they'd been missing for nearly two weeks until they were found strung up along the top of our ministry building. Muggle police are clueless how they got there, but…"

"But we know."

He ponders this disturbing bit of information. "Yeah."

I start to say something else, but he interrupts me. "Oh, and there's…" He flips over his folded paper, briefly glancing at the text on the other side. "Ian Parkinson. Lead Ambassador of the Muggle Relations Department. He's been gone for nearly a month now."

I shake my head. For the last year or so, Anti-Muggle sentiments seemed to have reached their feverish, maximum pitch. My parents assured me it was nothing to worry about – it had always been like this. Coming and going in waves. No matter how the Fundamentalist witches and wizards balked at and resisted the pulls of change tugging at them from every direction. As our society grows, so does the Muggles'. Both of our worlds are constantly expanding, spreading and sprawling nearer and nearer to one another, in spite of those of us who try so desperately to remain anchored to the past, who turn their sails away, fighting with everything they have against any breath of wind that blows in reeking of the new, the different; the unfamiliar. Inevitably, they always lose their grip, get swept along; carried away by the changing tides. And the turbulent waters come crashing over the bow.

From the earliest parts of our history, witches and wizards began to trickle through the cracks of our seemingly impenetrable wall of secrecy, mixing and mingling within Muggle society. But most problematic proved, as always, to be matters of the heart. The stiff, gnarled branches of lineages and traditions were forgotten. Forsaken for warmth, for softness, for love. Blood mixed with water, and "Mudbloods" were born. Of course, it was shocking. Of course people talked. A "disgrace to the name of Wizard," perhaps, but this was nothing new. Nothing unheard of. Trespasses amongst families were tolerated, but quickly hushed. Never spoken of. And that's how they were supposed to stay. Locked up, tucked away. Left to linger in the dark corners of closets with the other skeletons, untouched and unspoken, cloaked by the deepest of shames that only intolerance can breed. And that's how it was. And that's how it stayed. For awhile, anyway. Until those troublesome winds picked up again.

Integrated families clamored for their magical children to be allowed to attend standard schools of witchcraft and wizardry instead of the separate, thoroughly second-rate institutions that had been created for them. The rationale being that, due to their muddled lineage, their subsequently muddled magical abilities of "mudbloods" and Muggle-borns would interfere with the "proper" education of the pure blooded students. Owls flooded the ministry (to the point that an additional owlery was added so employees could finally return to their desks without fear of being pecked and pestered for treats). Each and every letter clutched between their curved beaks representing yet another family fed up with the silence; countless witches, wizards, and Muggle men and women, all demanding some semblance of equality.

Speeches were made, rallies were held. My father was even in attendance when Albus Dumbledore famously declared his full support for Muggle rights by commending Muggles for their invention of toesocks – the warmest pair of socks he'd yet had the privilege of wearing. He concluded his comments by stating that a society that so values the toastiness of even its tiniest appendages is clearly one deserving of the utmost tolerance and understanding. (From what my father told me, that wasn't one of Dumbledore's most well received speeches. On either end.) Eventually, in spite of hard fought resistance from the other side, and the notoriously glacial pace of any and all bureaucratic processes, laws were passed. The silence was broken. And with the passing of the silence, came the thunderous beginnings of a new generation.

Muggle techniques and inventions were no longer viewed solely as quaint, mockable, but ultimately useless attempts at surviving a piteous life bereft in the absence of magic. Suddenly, their archaic buttons and knobs and wires grew to be even more than just viable fascinations, but worthwhile inventions that could be modified and integrated into our daily lives. Wizarding schools throughout the country added Muggle Studies courses to their class listings. It quickly became fashionable, even trendy, to be "Muggle-fied." Muggle styles of dress began appearing in shop windows in all but the most prominent wizarding neighborhoods. The younger crowd, so quick to adopt any and all habits with the capability to shock and horrify their parents, enthusiastically traded their flowing, intricately embroidered robes for short skirts and tight trousers. Even Muggle music became popular – one trend, much to my wizard father's dismay, I eventually came to embrace whole-heartedly.

But, nothing's ever that easy. Just when the waters seemed calm, when the ship seemed even, settled upon its keel, gentle breezes began to breathe discontent once again. Ripples marred the mask of placidity and acceptance that seemed to have settled upon the collective face of our society. And the winds began to howl. Cries for tradition, for "normalcy", a return to the "Fundamentals of Magic" drowned the voices once screaming for equality. Why should _we_ be accepting? Why should we share our coveted secrets with the very ones who once hunted, banished, and killed our ancestors with the deafening cries of heresy? Why now? After all, _we_ were the ones forced into hiding. For centuries _we_ had been the ones cloaked with shame - the forbidden, the frightening; the forgotten the unmentionables.

Of course for every new law that was passed, there were old ones. Long, rambling, barely comprehensible scrolls dragged up from the depths of the filing cabinets where all forgotten, outdated legislation goes to die. Pages and pages of parchment filled with statutes detailing the importance of secrecy, our decision to remain hidden, for the Muggles' protection, and, more importantly, for our own. Quite unceremoniously, these fledgling new laws were reversed and undone long before their effects could be thoroughly seen, much less observed and analyzed.

And, so here we sit. Caught within the bitter backlash. Neither here nor there, neither regressing, nor pushing forward, forging paths to new, tentative futures filled with all those gloriously hesitant possibilities. Muggleborns, no longer willing nor able to be denied, exist in greater numbers than ever, but struggle to find their place in a world tense with the unwillingness of those who refuse to accept them. The "pure blooded" wizards, enraptured with their own notions of nobility, novelty and rarity, close up; collapse in upon themselves into an all-consuming singularity of self-importance. And now, there are these abductions. Nearly everyday. But the blue blood of bigotry runs deep, and it flows ever stronger through the veins of even the students here at Hogwarts.

It began innocently enough – a hex there, an insult there. Nothing alarming, nothing to worry about. These things happen every day. Detentions are issued, "youthful indiscretions" dismissed, and the business of every day living resumes. But slowly, surely, these "pranks" took a turn for the malevolent. They became patterned, systemic; very nearly predictable in their insistent regularity. The attacker's identities grew increasingly mysterious, in spite of certain students being chosen as repeat targets. A misfortunate few selected to bear the brunt of their parents' personal decisions here at school. Madam Pomfrey easily righted their wounds upon a quick visit to the hospital wing, but the humiliation of "Mudblood," branded across walls, their clothes, or sometimes even their skins, always lingered.

I quickly scan the up-side-down text of Remus's paper, my troubled scowl mirroring his own. "This is getting fucking ridiculous."

He's silent for a long moment, before nodding his agreement. "Yeah, it is." And with a crinkling of pages, he vanishes.

I sip my coffee.

Lily arrives next. She approaches the table, leaning decidedly to one side, weighed down by the massive book bag slung across her chest. The crimson bulk of one of James's old Quidditch jerseys, the massive amounts of fabric dwarfing her slight frame, blends into the hair brushing across the tops of her shoulders. James proudly gave Lily his jersey – one he'd worn during _countless_ Gryffindor victories, no less - when they first started dating. A bold gesture, one marking their official status as Hogwarts' first "power couple." She'd since worn the thing to every Quidditch match she attended. This isn't a good sign.

She plops down next to me, immediately thrusting off her bag and grabbing a piece of toast in one fluid movement. "Morning, sunshine." She grins at me, and I grin back, in spite of the growing sense of agitation forming in my stomach. I'm not exactly a fan of Quidditch. I glance around, noticing for the first time that the peace of early morning is being shattered more quickly than usual. Packs of students now crowd the tables that would otherwise be empty at this hour on a Saturday morning. Bursts of excited conversation fight to dominate one another as the vibrant masses of crimson, gold, navy, and green converge upon the waiting platters of food. Yes, there's definitely…

"Quidditch today," James proclaims, hurling himself down into his usual seat next to Lily. Sirius is with him, clad in his ever-present (defiant even of the warmth of spring) leather jacket, a black spot besmudging the otherwise uniform show of House support from the Gryffindors. I smile at this flagrant show of disdain for the fervor surrounding Hogwarts' premiere non-academic activity. Sirius possesses a natural knack for athletic ability, yet another one of the many things he unwittingly shares with his brother. But, always eager for ways to further differentiate himself from Reg, Sirius doggedly abstained from joining the cause of Gryffindor's undisputed domination of the Quidditch world - in spite of constant pestering from James. Every time James asked him to join the team (which became a nearly daily occurrence at one point), Sirius would reply with an irritated toss of his head, followed by the proclamation that he doesn't "_do_ team sports."

I watch James and Sirius struggle for control of a steaming platter of sausages before turning back to Lily. "I take it you're going?"

"Yes," she says. "Of course I'm going. It's the finals."

I'm pretty sure I roll my eyes. It happens so frequently now, I'm hardly aware of it when it does. After idly watching James and Sirius's continued squabble for a few seconds, Lily reaches over, grabs the contested bit of meat, and sets it at the deadly center of her plate. Ignoring the grumbled complaints of the two dangerously ravenous teenage boys, she plunges the tines of her fork into the tube of sausage of with all of the dignified finality of victory. She looks up at me as she slides in her knife, and smiles. "I don't see what you're rolling your eyes about, especially since you're coming with me." She pops a bite of food into her mouth, and begins to chew, still smiling her sweetest of smiles.

She's got to be joking. "Um, no, I'm not."

"Yes-" The fork screeches in protest, scraping against the ceramic of her plate. "You are." Another slice of meat disappears into her mouth. She smiles. She chews. I sip my coffee. I frown down into my mug. It's cold now.

"Besides, a bit of sun probably'd do you good. When was the last time you even went outside?"

"I… don't think that really matters."

"Of course it does. Regardless…" She finishes, washing down her final bite with a swig of pumpkin juice. "You're still going."

I chew on the inside corner of my lower lip as I glower at her. I'm definitely annoyed now. "Does_ he_ have to go?" I jerk my thumb toward Remus, still dutifully pretending to ignore everything happening around him. Lily serenely contemplates his back pages of The Prophet hovering across from us. "No, he doesn't."

I finally release the exasperated sigh I'd been repressing since somewhere around the time "Quidditch" was first mentioned. "Why the hell NOT?"

"Because. Remus hasn't been stuck in a spiraling, uncontrollable fit of depression, despair, and self-loathing for the past couple of weeks. That's why."

I glance at the paper formerly known as Remus. "Remus," I snap, "is this true?"

Slowly, he lowers the paper until we can both see his eyes. He's met with the undoubtedly delightful vision of our most petulant stares. Both Lily and myself fully expecting that he should take our side in this debate (if you could even call it that).

"Possibly." A smile plays upon his lips. He disappears back behind his paper. I reach for the precious pot of coffee in front of me to refill my now tepid mug. I'm not going. Lily stops me. She grabs my arm, and pulls me to my feet. "You're going." Before I can even protest, we're caught up amongst the stream of students filing out of the Great Hall and into the blinding sunlight of what would otherwise be a glorious spring day.

Suddenly, James appears beside us, whooping and hollering and yelling praises and encouragement to his teammates as he passes; shouting preemptive condolences to anyone who happens to be wearing blue. Apparently, Gryffindor is playing Ravenclaw for the cup today. Good. He won't be playing. Good. I'm relieved. I'm… disappointed. Secretly. Probably a combination of both. The few Quidditch matches I _had_ attended, were always when Regulus _was_ playing. Mostly, I sat there amongst the throngs of my cheering Slytherin housemates, hands clasped tightly in my lap, hoping he didn't die. Clearly, he didn't. In fact, he always performed brilliantly; frequently catching the snitch in the early moments of the game, long before the opposing seeker ever caught sight of it. Not every time, of course. But most times. Frequently enough to be considered talented. But after each match, every time, without fail, he found me in the stands.

He approaches, easily taking the rows two at a time. His hair, whipped about his head in all different directions, still somehow manages to maintain the effect that it's just been effortlessly styled. Probably because it has been. Breathless – athletically gifted, sure, but he certainly didn't work at staying in shape – and grinning, he comes to a halt mere inches away from me. I can still feel his warm, haughty breaths on my face.

"You want it?" He unceremoniously holds out his hand, his gloved, white-knuckled fist clutched tightly around the snitch I know is still struggling inside. This, a deliberate, over-exaggerated mockery of the same triumphant ritual played out by every other team's seeker, and his or her partner of choice, had always been a private game of ours. But, like all things, it quickly became imbued with a whole new sticky set of meanings once we actually started dating. I imagine the tiny, flittering ball of gold struggling against the bony cage of his fingers, focusing its every effort into the flapping of its miniscule wings.

"Is it broken?"

He shakes his head. "No, this one still flies."

I smile and adjust the scarf draped around my neck before holding out both of my hands, cupping them together to form a bowl; one small enough for the bottom of his closed fist to cover entirely. He raises an eyebrow. "Ready?" I nod. He releases the snitch from his hand, transferring it to my own. I smile down at my hands, now clasped tightly together, the wings of my tiny captive tickling the insides of my palms in its continued struggle for freedom. I glance toward the sky.

His grin, coolly disinterested before, stretches out into the full length of his spectacular smile, actually revealing the rows of nearly perfectly straightened teeth lining his mouth. (The Burg paid to have his teeth magically straightened the same year he started at Hogwarts, but still, one delicately crooked incisor remains.) His gaze follows mine, upward, toward the steely cool gray of the sky.

"Potter really _hates_ that, you know."

"I know." I smile, and unfold my encapsulating hands. The snitch immediately bursts free, at first a sparkle, then a tiny golden glimmer, before finally fully fading from view. It continues its delicate ascent into the sky, spiraling and darting this way and that, the beginning of its journey to destinations unknown. Still smiling, Reg pulls me toward him, his eyes closed; wearily resting his cool lips against my forehead. "May we please go now? I'm sick of this uniform." Still stupid and smiling, I nod. I only kept the broken ones. The snitches. I still have them. Stashed in a dusty box beneath my four-poster bed; along with every other trinket of happiness we shared together.

God, I hate Quidditch.

James is still glowing beside me, absolutely invigorated with anticipation for the upcoming match – he lives for these moments. He's been in his uniform since breakfast. Hell, he probably slept in it. He throws an arm around Lily, pulling her toward him as he walks. He buries his face against her hair, planting a kiss on top of her head, muttering something I can't hear. They beam up at each other, both clearly enraptured with the prospect of yet another Gryffindor win.

I wince. It's there again. The ache. I feel my hand reach up, groping at my chest, just below my left collarbone. My fingers clutch at flesh and fabric. Still there, still unbroken. My fault lines clearly visible, but still steady. Immobile. I'm not completely selfish – I love that they're happy. I just can't stand to watch it, that's all. I let myself trail behind them, James and Lily still linked together as they work their way toward the quidditch pitch and the stands already swarming with students and teachers clambering over one another in their eagerness to find the best seats.

"Come on, kid. James got me up at seven to go to this goddamn game. You're comin', too."

Sirius's low voice startles me. I miss a step in my plodding march toward the overly abundant festivity of the quidditch finals. This is the first time he's spoken to me since I'd made my modest reentry to the group. I look up at him, his face rising only a few inches above my own. He grins, but it's one laced with trepidation. He shakes his shaggy black hair, always kept long, just beyond the reaches of respectability, out of his gray eyes. Looking at them now, I'm shocked by their familiarity. Another similarity, one forced upon him by the irreversible hand of genetics. But, unlike Reg, Sirius's eyes are tinged with a clear, stormy blue.

Eager to accept this unexpected show of friendship, I shoot back, "Yeah, but he's _your _best friend."

"Not on quidditch days, he's not." He grins once more, and this time, it's genuine. And it's just as infectious as I remember. I grin back. His eyes dart up as he catches sight of someone – Peter, chatting with Wendy Davies, the keeper for the Ravenclaws, who stands nearly a full three inches taller than him. "Christ." Sirius winces embarrassment on behalf of Peter and his insistent attempts to date girls of a higher social rank. "Somebody's gotta stop 'him before he tries doin' that Dumbledore impression again." He waves slightly over his shoulder as he jogs ahead to catch up with Peter. "See you around, kid…" A group of giddy, giggling Gryffindor quidditch groupies pull in front of me, blocking Sirius and Peter from view. The crowd shifts, and with that, they've disappeared completely, mixing in with the throbbing mass of the crowd.

Lily drags me up into the stands, finding two seats for us on the side packed tightly with exuberant Gryffindors. Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Slytherins fill the bleachers on the opposite end of the pitch, all their anti-Gryffindor merchandise (believe me, there's plenty): hats, buttons, rosettes, and shirts - erratically singing, slinging, and flashing insults back at us. Charming objects, all of them. Especially the ones depicting images of ravens consuming or dismembering a lion in some form or another. Slightly disturbing, sure, but still maintaining the reputation for morbid cleverness so touted by the members of the Ravenclaw House. Clearly, there's hope for an upset.

James marches confidently out to the center of the pitch, his captain's cape billowing out majestically behind him. After the obligatory gripping of the hands with the Ravenclaw captain, he mounts his broom. And with a thunderous, rallying cry from the Gryffindors, the match begins.

In an instant, everyone is on their feet. I'm surrounded by a forest of stick-straight calves, shins, and ankles. The Gryffindor crowd acts as one finely tuned machine, channeling every collective ounce of their energy into screaming encouragement for their team. Not a moment is wasted – every second of the match corresponds to a well-rehearsed chant, cry, or cheer. It's impressive, but also mildly terrifying for all its practiced uniformity. Even Professor McGonogall, notoriously thin-mouthed and tight-lipped Minerva, has her hands cupped around her O-shaped mouth to amplify an unmistakable "BOOOOOOO!"

Gryffindor scores. The wooden bleachers tremble with the excited foot stomps punctuating the maniacal chants of "GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR! GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR!" echoing above my head. Fearing I might be trampled, I clamber to my feet, popping my head up beside Lily's. I stare down at her. She's descended into full-tilt quidditch madness. Her hair and the loose folds of James's jersey swirl around her in a furious storm of red and gold. She repeatedly pummels the unabashedly blue sky with her fists, screaming an impressive stream of obscenities – one that would ordinarily land someone with at _least_ three detentions.

Lily Evans. So studious, so courteous in most other aspects of her life, just referred to the Ravenclaw keeper as a "talentless, steaming puddle of bowtruckle piss". Whatever that means. It used to be tradition for Lily to escort a group of unsuspecting first-year students to the first Quidditch match of the season. After… numerous complaints, McGonogall sternly suggested that perhaps it would be best to let the first-years fend for themselves from then on. My cheeks pucker into a smirk. I'm pretty sure those kids aren't exactly fans of Quidditch these days, either.

I poke Lily's shoulder. She doesn't respond. I doubt she even felt it. Now's my chance. I quickly make my escape, trodding on toes, climbing over the stacked rows of the quidditch fiends – each one tossing me a brief, angry stare for having the gall to leave prior to the match's conclusion. I manage to make it out of the bleachers relatively unscathed. I breathe a sigh of a relief, and peer back up toward the game.

The players are tiny dots against the sky now. Zipping and zooming this way and that. Ravenclaw scores. It's a close match. They're going to be here awhile. The triumphant cheers of the Ravenclaw supporters well up in a wall of sound behind me as I turn to head back to the mercifully quiet, empty castle. I'm lost in thought as I walk, trying to convince myself that the Transfiguration essay I have to hand in on Monday can be put off until tomorrow.

"Leaving already?"

A rough, firm hand grabs hold of my forearm. Startled, I gasp, and immediately yank my arm away, lurching backward a few feet in the process.

"Christ, you're jumpy. 'Course, can't really blame you, livin' with that lot you do…" Sirius wags his head from side to side, clearing the hair that's constantly dangling in front of his mischievous eyes from view. His foot propped up against the back of the bleachers, he pulls a small flagon of fire whiskey from the shadowy interior of his jacket pocket. I stare at the bottle; completely unaware of the look of pure, unadulterated longing that's managed to work its way across my features. Watching me the entire time, Sirius takes a long swig, then wipes his mouth clean; dragging the back of his palm across his stubble-covered chin. I can smell the pungent beverage from where I'm standing. My nose crinkles against its will.

Still watching me with a curious, slightly amused expression on his face, Sirius holds the bottle out to me. "I take it you want some?" I contemplate the amber-colored liquid for all of a second before nodding. Vigorously. Probably a little _too_ vigorously. This isn't my first encounter with alcohol, not by any means. First and foremost entertainers of all the right company, and, consequently, enthusiastic drinkers themselves, my parents always keep our home fully stocked with bottles and bottles of the finest liquors and spirits the wizarding world has to offer. Bottles I eagerly skimmed off the tops of every time I was left at home, alone to my own devices (which was often). I've tasted the unwelcomed truths that only Veela _Veritas Vodka_ can bring; I've known the warm, rosy sorrows that accompany a bottle of perfectly aged Goblin-made wine.

This _is_, however, my first encounter with… I squint at the ripped, faded label, _Ab's Flamin' Hog's Fire Whiskey_. I shrug. This stuff is supposed to make you forget. I have _plenty_ to forget. I grab the bottle from Sirius - "Least you can do is say please…" - ignoring the blistering scent wafting up toward my nostrils. I wrap my lips around the cool glass, and throw my head backward, gulping down as much of stuff as I can manage. I blink. Then, it ignites. The fire rockets downward, charring my esophagus, briefly pausing to lick and linger at the insides of my chest, before exploding in all its liquid ferocity in the pit of my stomach.

I cough, I sputter. I can't see through the tears stinging the backs of my eyelids. I wipe furiously at my eyes, glaring at the black, glittery streaks of make-up clinging to the cracks of my skin on the backs of my hands. My stomach still burns. I break into another fit of coughing. At some point, I manage to gasp, "What the hell _is_ this? Poison…?"

He smirks that same superior, all-knowing smirk I saw him make the evening of my sorting. Sirius shoves his hands into the pockets of faded jeans, and uses the foot he was leaning against to thrust himself forward from the bleachers. "No, that's fire whiskey." He makes a grab for the bottle, but I jerk it away. I'm not going through all this torture without getting at least a _little_ drunk. In spite of the immediate, lurching protests of my gag-reflex, I press the bottle to my stinging lips once again, and take a gulp. I cough, but this time, it's not so bad. And the warmth in my stomach is comforting. Nearly familiar.

Sirius stands there, still studying me with that same strange expression. Expectant, maybe? I reluctantly hold the bottle back toward him, but he pushes it away. "Keep it. You need it more than I do. Anyway…" Once again, he reaches into his jacket. "There's more where that came from." He pulls out a shiny, silver flask. I notice the delicate curves of the Black family crest engraved on its front. Funny, the pieces of his past he chooses to keep. He follows my gaze, and hastily shoves the flask back out of sight. "It was a gift from my Uncle Alphard." Uncle Alphard. I'd heard of him. Reg mentioned him to me a few times. "He's, uh…" Sirius tugs his fingers through his hair. Another similarity. "My favorite uncle." Reg hated the guy.

I nearly laugh. Instead, I take yet another determined swig from my bottle of _Hog's Fire_. I swallow, but don't cough. This time, the burning mixes and mingles with a pleasant, numbing sensation. Beginning at my stomach, its caress flows upward, detaching my face from the rest of my body. Rounding out the sharp edges of anything and everything I'd hoped to never think or feel again. Things are soft, fuzzy; ill-defined. Blurred, indistinct images from some distant life lived far, far away. Just the way I want them. They can't get me. They can't hurt me now. Satisfied, I screw the cap back onto the bottle, and gingerly, carefully stow my new best friend inside the bottomless depths of my bag. I can feel him watching me still. Uncomfortable, and mildly irritated at the audacity of his unrelenting stare, I shift my weight from foot to foot. "Is there something I can help you with?"

He laughs. A short, rasping bark. "Naw, kid… I…" He peers at me. I know this face. It's contemplative. "You wanna get out of here?"

My shoulders roll forward; relieved from the weight of a tension I didn't even know I was carrying. He grins. And, maybe it's just the fire whiskey, but… I nod. A cool breeze blows in from the North, stirring a few stray hairs across the top of my head, altering the course of my plans for that Saturday afternoon.

I hoist up my sails, and let myself be carried away.

I smile. "I thought you'd never ask."


	6. Dead Reckoning

Chapter 6

Dead Reckoning.

"_A tree, for all these problems_

_They can't find us for the moment._

_Then, for all past efforts,_

_There, buried deep beneath_

_Our hearts and somewhere_

_In our stomachs._

_Hatred for all others_

_When awful people they surround you._

_Well ain't they just like monsters?_

_They come to feed on us_

_Giant little animals for us._

_Though, to say we've got much hope_

_If I am lost, it's only for a little while."_

**[Band of Horses/Monsters]**

A twig snaps, echoing through the still, shaded silence of the Forbidden Forest. The further we wander into the sheltered darkness of its leafy canopy, the more muted things become. The tops of the trees bend and flex toward one another, blocking out even the most insistent rays of the eager spring sun. The Quidditch match seems miles away from us now. Nothing but an echo of some memory long ago. It's dark in here. The heavy, dense air clings, cool against my skin. It lingers, thick and musty in my lungs, like I'm breathing in the in the soft, mildewy pages of the ancient texts lining the shelves of the Restricted Section.

I stare at the dark forest floor as I carefully pick my way over rocks, slippery with moss, and the thick, knotted roots of wizened trees jutting out from the damp, black soil. My pace is slow and tedious as I make my way through dense brambles and underbrush, periodically stopping to unhitch my shirt or the frayed hems of my jeans from some branch or thorn that dared to claw its way through the fabric and wiggle its way into my skin. The sharp sting from the resounding _smacks_ I unleashed upon my arm mocks me; an unpleasant reminder of my many failed attempts to fend off the frighteneningly abundant varieties of six and eight-legged monstrosities that make their home here.

This is not my idea of a good time.

"Just… _where_ are we going? Exactly?" I duck, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with some low-hanging branch. Didn't see that one coming. I was too busy staring at the laces of my shoes, minding the treacherous, non-existent path Sirius is taking me down, leading me further into the depths of forest than I'd ever dared travel before. I'm certain we're lost. At least, _I_ certainly am. But Sirius plods steadily along, silent and sure-footed. At least _he_ knows where he's going. I struggle to keep up, to keep him in sight. To not allow him to become yet another shapeless, shifting shadow amongst the trees. I stumble. Gravity, my most cruel and persistent enemy, pulls me through another dense patch of growth. When I emerge, I find Sirius there waiting for me. Grinning. He's always grinning. I fail to see what's so amusing about this situation.

He catches me by my arm, steadying back onto my feet. Quick reflexes. I add this to my already lengthy mental tally of similarities Sirius shares with his younger brother. "We're not goin' anywhere if you kill yourself first." That clears things up. The pleasant effects of the fire whiskey have completely vanished now, and I'm astounded by how rapidly this is becoming an increasingly _terrible_ idea. My head throbs with the residual, lingering ache of the rapidly evaporating alcohol. The initial burning of the _Hog's Fire_ has returned, but this time, it's clawing its way the opposite direction back up my throat.

Sirius laughs, apparently completely at ease in this hostile environment. His black hair swings freely about his face, following the movements of the peaks and valleys of his mirth. An occasional flash of his eyes shines through; aglow, invigorated; alive. I look away. His gaze makes me uncomfortable. Like he's capable of seeing things about myself I'd really rather he didn't. It's annoying. I don't enjoy vulnerability, real or imagined. I adjust one of the pieces of my own white-blond hair pasted to my forehead by a clammy sweat, and glare at him. He holds up his hands in a teasing surrender to my unspoken wrath. All I see are his grimy fingernails.

"Alright, alright. It's not much farther. Come on…"

He plunges ahead. That's what he said twenty minutes ago. "Not much farther…" Without any other more appealing alternatives, I follow. Eventually, surprisingly, I find my own irregular pace. Step, step, slip. Step, step, pause. Step, step, Slip. Step, step, pause. The deadened, dried fauna crunches beneath my feet, creating a delicate cadence that lulls me into complacency. I don't have to concentrate anymore. My thoughts take over. I distract myself from the fact that I'm in all likelihood doomed to wander lost amongst these tenebrous trees for the rest of eternity, by wondering. What the hell am I doing here? I look ahead to Sirius's back, as he deftly ducks, dives, and jumps out of the way of every obstacle nature throws in his way, just like a young boy should. He slips through another thicket of braches, and the soft sheen of his jacket disappears once again.

What _am_ I doing here? Sirius and I have never exactly been friends. Initially, he seemed to fill an "older, wiser brother" sort of role, but as Regulus and I continued dating, and Sirius and Regulus grew further and further apart, in both height and attitude, his tolerance for me became increasingly non-existent. In fact, for a while, I was fairly certain I hated him, and that he hated me. That's how it was supposed to be, anyway. I had a bad case of the "Slytherin thing," after all. We'd never had much to actually _say_ to one another, anyway – whenever he _did _decide to address me; it generally took the form of some low, guttural grunting sound. Subjects of conversation rarely strayed from his mocking of something his "idiot brother" had done, or to discuss the merits of Muggle vs. Wizarding rock.

Okay, so we have _one_ thing in common. Sirius acquired his taste for Muggle music, especially that of the "punk rock" persuasion, in an attempt to further his unending quest to piss off his mother. I, on the other hand, when my childish terror of the limitless uncertainties that came with the darkness of bedtime kept me up, wide-eyed and clutching my pillow, spent many nights being lulled to sleep by the tremulous tenor tones of my Muggle mother's voice. She would sing me everything she knew: children's songs, classics, hits; even commercial jingles, until my fright finally subsided, and I'd allow myself to drift into the safety and security of the soundest sleeps.

Like so many other elements of the Muggle world, certain musical groups occasionally permeated the membrane of our secretive and selective society, rising and falling in swells of popularity. But from those early years of my youth forward, my love of music, Muggle or otherwise, never faltered. So Sirius and I spent a handful of lunch hours debating who was better, harder, faster, or ever more incomparable: The Mudbloods, or The Misfits? The Howlers, or The Stooges? These exchanges, however, were relatively rare. Most often, he would just ask me to pass the dinner rolls.

That's another thing. He's always… eating. Well, stuffing his face with food, and cracking jokes about the alleged homosexuality of… everyone (except James and himself, of course). His hair never looks freshly washed, his clothes never clean and laundered. He belches, taunts, snores, and spits – reveling in just about every disgusting habit most of the mongrel boys in this school seem to share. Not to mention he has James's fondness for pestering anyone he actually notices long enough to bother him.

Lately, though, something about him has changed. It's noticeable, even to me. He's quieter, not as cocky – not that he was especially chatty to begin with - less arrogant, more surly and withdrawn. I suppose being temporarily forsaken by nearly all of your closest friends will do that to you. I do feel a hint of sympathy for him. I know what it's like to feel alone. My acceptance within the group waxes and wanes with Lily's feelings toward me, and I've never really gone much out of my way to cultivate a larger social circle. There are other people, of course, acquaintances, mostly: partners from old class projects, dorm mates, distant cousins from far across the Everheart family tree. People I can stop, smile at as they pass, and even chat with between classes, if the situation calls for it.

I know the motions well. I go through them methodically, periodically nodding my head in agreement when the demanding pitch of Whoever's voice calls for it, smiling when appropriate, frowning at their lamented injustices. You memorize little scripts, well-rehearsed and rehashed "safe" topics for each person. They vary slightly for the sake of customization and the perpetuation everyone's self-entitled notions of individuality. But they're scripts, nonetheless. I've always felt distanced from the great white majority, oddly removed from the ordinary social chains and ranks and orders of things. I talk, but I don't converse. And afterward, I'm always left unsatisfied. But I play my parts well. There are so many – dutiful daughter, self-motivated Slytherin, enthusiastic citizen of wizarding society. And while they're not always insincere, it does become exhausting. Eventually.

But then, there are those few. Those glorious few with whom the talk is never tiresome. And when you're with them, the armor falls away; the guards abandon their posts. There's nothing left to hide. Like with Lily. We may bicker, and she may be bossy and sometimes overbearing (yet two more necessary personality traits if you happen to be dating James Potter), but the words have always flowed freely between us. Jokes and quips and exchanges reverberate back and forth, often times never needing to be spoken at all. And, that's how it used to be. With him.

Ever since Reg returned from the winter holiday this year, things were different. The gates were drawn, the defenses were up. I couldn't get through. He wouldn't let me in. No matter how I tried. Our kisses left shallow, never delving too deep. He held his lips held hard in place, never moving to meet my own in their desperate, devouring search for answers. For the truth I hungered him to feed me. In those final months, he left the stage, calling in his understudy to finish out the run of his role of the devoted boyfriend. The acts were familiar, Morning Coffee-Run, Between Class Embrace, Pretentious Class-Time Compatriot, but never played with the same honesty and sincerity I had become accustomed to. And what killed me, what still haunts me, is that I never said my piece. The curtain fell too soon; the applause never came. He bowed out and left the stage long before they called my final cue.

He left me here, waiting in the wings. Lost and alone in the foreboding forest of my mind. Branches dripping with toxic thoughts. To wonder. Wonder what went wrong, what could have been done differently. Was it me? Was it him? Was it us? The marquee had changed, the spotlight swept away, long before we exchanged our final lines. Abruptly, I'm reciting nothing but my same, sad soliloquy. "These things happen," calls the audience, laughing, right on cue. "But not to me; not to _us_," I repeat. My desperate, devout refrain falls onto the ears of a deafened house. The curtain fell, their faces turned away. And so here I am, trudging through this haven for monsters ready and waiting to feed, following the navigation of the brightest star into these uncharted woods. Because right now, he's all I can see.

Suddenly, he stops. My steady rhythm breaks, pulling me from my wayward wonderings. I clamber up beside him, gripping a searing stitch in my side. Sirius pulls out his wand, muttering a few mumbled spells I can't decipher.

"We're here, kid, so don't go dyin' on me now." Still grinning, he steps toward a tiny, disjointed structure of scrap wood and metal that hadn't been there but a few seconds ago. It stands just slightly taller than a stall in the second floor girl's bathroom. Seriously? "_This's_ what you dragged me out here for?" My voice is shrill, piqued with incredulity. Somewhere, I'm aware of the fact that I should be ashamed of the fact that I'm acting like a petulant two-year-old, but at the moment, I don't care. My mood has been venomous ever since the quidditch. And the bugs and branches and the hangover haven't helped.

He rolls his eyes down to look at me. "Yeah. I dragged your whiny ass out here to stare at a broken down shack, Eves. You caught me." I don't laugh. He does. "Don't you know it's what's _inside_ that counts?" No.

Before I make my disparaging reply, he leads me inside. I stare around the small, crowded space. Bits and pieces of random, discarded pieces of metal lie in high, stovepipe stacks against the shaky, two-ply walls. Jammed into the splintered grains of the wood, are multitudes of hooks and nails and shelves, from which dangle tools of every type imaginable, forged from the same, twisted, brown-black metal. I peer at them in the light emanating from Sirius's wand. The claw-like shapes and clamps are vaguely recognizable to me; mostly Muggle devices that I could only begin to guess at the names of. Pale-blue shop rags, stained with black smears of grease litter the junk piles, bright spots of color and softness – the only things in here that serve some not entirely mechanical purpose.

It smells like I've been shoved down the bell of a well-oiled, brass horn. The tight air in here, steeped with the sharp, acrid tinge of alloys and metallics, contrasts sharply with the immobile, organic must of the forest outside. I am _completely_ out of my element. I take everything in, unsure of how or where to move, fearing that I might trip over or inadvertently break something. Looking at, much less touching any of these foreign, slightly ominous looking objects seems markedly unwise. Sirius on the other hand, looks right at home. In fact, he seems more relaxed here than I ever see him back at the castle. His large, careless movements seem to fill up the entire… workshop. Or junkyard with walls. Whatever you want to call it.

He tosses his jacket onto a squat, round-ish object, which looks like it has the square folds a compressed, side-turned accordion sticking out of the top. It's the only thing in the room that gives the impression that it might have been new once. I cock my head to the side. It seems like I've seen this somewhere before. An engine, maybe? But those are Class-Three Outlawed Muggle Objects. He wouldn't be stupid enough to bring one of those _here_, would he?

I'm startled by the scraping sound of Sirius dragging an up-side-down plastic crate toward him to play the part of a workbench. I spot another crate near where I'm standing, and hastily follow suit - my stiff, anxious movements a poor imitation of his free-form relaxation. With one elbow resting on the edge of his knee, his left hand dangling between his wide spread legs, he waves his wand in the direction a squat, brown, old Muggle radio. My eyes widen. Another OMO. That's not supposed to be here, either. None of this is. The fast, churning fury of power chords from a Muggle song I recognize rip through the occasional crackles of static, shattering the silence in our tiny, scrap metal cave. The Clash. I roll my eyes at his predictability. He _would_ like The Clash. Reg can't stand their joyfully riotous "noise." I wonder which came first. Sirius's enjoyment, or Reg's disapproval. Sirius eventually glances over his shoulder at me, his face glowing with pride. "Isn't she great?"

Who? I glance around, expecting to see some other previously unnoticed witch emerge from the shadows. Sirius reaches out and lovingly pats the object in front of him. "Been fixin' her up for the last few years or so. Be finished pretty soon…" I fix my eyes on this non-humanoid object of Sirius's affection. Like an optical illusion, the slim frame and two large, rubber wheels of a motorcycle emerge, barely distinguishable from the jumbled mess of parts behind it. My eyes pop open for a second time. That's _really _not supposed to be here. Smug and satisfied with my stunned silence, Sirius plucks a cigarette from behind his ear and sticks it between his lips. I bet The Burg just _loves_ that. Instead of using his wand, Sirius lights the end of his cigarette with a rectangular, silver lighter, also bearing the mark of the Black family crest. Apparently, Uncle Alphard enjoys a multitude of vices.

"Kid? You there?" He mutters his words through the bobbing butt-end of his cigarette. I nod my head, finally finding my voice. "Yeah. Um. What're you _doing_ with that thing?"

"I'm fixing it up. Whuddoes it look like I'm doin'?" He pulls a long drag into his lungs, before tilting his head back and pushing a thin stream of white smoke out toward the low ceiling.

"Yes, I can see that. What I _meant_ is… why do you _have_ a…. MOTORCYLE? Not to mention all the rest of this crap…"

He twists the wrist of his left hand, still dangling between his thighs, toward the sky, in a very slight, indifferent attempt at a shrug. "I've always wanted one, I guess." He bends down to pick up one of the tools lying in front of his feet, a smile curling itself around the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. "And 'cause it'd really chap dear old Mum's ass if she found out I used the last sack of galleons I took from Gringotts before they cut me off to buy some 'filthy Muggle contraption.'" I can't help but smile. He has a point there.

He tosses the long, metal object he picked up off the ground up and down in his left hand, that smile still twisting its way across his face. He flicks his cigarette, sending bright, glowing sparks and bits of ash sailing through the air. "'Sides…" He drags the toe of his shoe across the ground. "I figured it'd make up for the last few years of birthday and Christmas presents they owe me." He stares at his holey, canvas sneaker as he uses it to churn up tiny whirlwinds of dust. Briefly, I imagine him as a small boy, dragging the toe of his polished, uncomfortable loafer through the dirt, head hung low, as The Burg berates him for some minor offense or another.

"Right. But isn't this sort of…" I wave my hands around, gesturing to the shack and its broken down contents in all their modest entirety. "_Illegal?_"

"Yeah. It is. S'why I brought her here in the first place." He pulls in another drag. "Dinn't want James and his parents bein' bothered by the ministry for having OMOs on their property while I was here at school. An' when I left their place, I just kept her here, so I could work on her whenever I felt like it. And it was worth it, too. Should have her flyin' before the end of the year…"

I kept quiet up until this point, keeping my mouth closed tight, in hopes of hearing some semblance of a rational explanation. But my words boil over. "FLY…?"

"Yeah." His grin reaches all the way across his face, now. "Fly."

My mind whirs as I struggle to comprehend why someone would risk expulsion and the wrath of the militantly anti-Muggle Ministry to rebuild some shoddy Muggle death-machine and make it _fly_. Sirius really seemed to be taking his whole teenage rebellion thing to new heights. "I mean, _why?_ There are _brooms_ for that, you know…"

"Because, it's fucking awesome, that's why. 'Sides… flyin' around on a broomstick all the time's a little queer, don'tchya think?"

"Probably, but don't tell James."

He snorts, winking his agreement before turning back around to face his motorcycle. Apparently "fucking awesome" was as much of an explanation I was going to get.

"Kid, hand me that screwdriver, would ya?"

I glance around at the piles of tools lined up along the walls. Screwdriver. I know what those are – I'd seen my mother using one around the house, occasionally. He watches me expectantly. Waiting for me to make a mistake; to have to correct me. I realize he's testing me. Annoyed, I yank the first screwdriver I see off the wall and thrust it toward him. He smiles approvingly. "That… that's great. But this's a flat-head. What I need's a Phillips-head."

"Well, if that's the case, then you really should have specified before." After narrowing my eyes at him, I hurl myself back down on top of my over-turned crate. I'm not in the mood for his games, or to play into whatever it is that he's testing me for. Loyalty? Knowledge of Muggle implements? Willingness to follow orders? Whatever the case may be, I stubbornly fold my arms across my chest.

He chuckles again. He's always doing that. Chuckling. Grinning and chuckling. Definitely _not_ a similarity, there. "Yeah, you're probably right, Eves…" His arm reaches in front of me to retrieve the damn Philips-head from the wall beside me. Without another word, he turns back to his bike, and sets to work. The gentle ratchetings, clicks, and whirs of his slow, steady tinkering mix with the music coming from the radio. There's a pause, and a _chink_ _chink_ of his lighter as he lights up another cigarette. A new song begins to play. David Bowie. I sit perched on the edge my crate, unwieldy and ill at ease as I anxiously tap my foot in time with the music. Sirius wipes his greasy hands on one of the shop rags before picking up his wand and pointing it toward the radio.

"Don't you dare change it – I love this song."

He sniffs. "You would like Bowie." But, he lowers wand.

Desperate not to return to another bout of uncomfortable silence, I find myself blurting, "Can I ask you something?" He turns back around to face me. He sits quietly for a few moments, before pulling what little remains of his cigarette away from his dry lips with his middle and index fingers. "Only if I get to ask you somethin' too, kid. Quid pro quo kind of style."

I nod, stringing words together in my brain, trying to form them into a question that it doesn't come off as too terribly offensive. "I… Just… Why did you bring me here? I mean, why… why are you talking me, all of a sudden?"

He shrugs. "I dunno… I guess… I'd seen the way you'd been walkin' around the last coupleuh days, and I just thought…"

"You thought I'd hate him now, too."

He's quiet for a moment. "Yeah. And…" He attempts a half-hearted grin. "I can't exactly be picky about friends these days."

"_Aww, wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!"_

I glance at the radio, grateful to have David Bowie along to fill the gaps in our conversation. "That's another thing I wanted to ask you. Why…"

He holds up his hand, shaking his head slightly. "Not so fast, kid. It's my turn now, remember?" He slowly returns his cigarette to his lips, attempting to tug out a few final drags. Realizing it's gone out, he cups his hand around his face, and with a well-practiced flick of his wrist and another _chink_ of his lighter, he reignites the charred leaves of tobacco. Each steady, expertly executed action seems to drag on for ages. Cursing his showy precision, I shift around, examine my fingers; tug down on the hem of my t-shirt, nervously awaiting whatever it is he's planning to ask. The room brightens briefly as the papers at the end of his cigarette burst into a tiny flame, silhouetting half of his face in a golden glow. He tosses his hair out of the way before puckering his lips and blowing it out. Flick. Drag. Exhale. Get _on_ with it.

"Do you? Hate him, I mean." His eyes drill directly into mine, unwavering. Exploring my shifty irises for any hint of untruth. He would ask this. The one question I didn't want to be asked – mostly because I really, _really_ don't like the answer to it. Even though I know exactly what I'm going to say, I'm slow to respond. Unwilling to make these thoughts any more real than they have to be. I look away. "I don't. I don't… hate him. I know I should, and…" A bit of embittered laughter tumbles into the mix, "I really, _really_ wish I did, b-but… I don't." My shoulders slump. His eyes finally fall away, disappointed. I don't really blame him. But, now I have the _real_ answer to my question. He was looking for allies.

He channels his incredulity into stamping out the battered butt of his cigarette with probably more force than is necessary. "I don't _get_… How can you not…?"

I hold up my hand, a notably less impressive action than when he does it, and drop my voice down a few octaves to imitate his gruff, gravelly drawn-out speech. "Quid pro quo-style, kid, remember?"

"Whatever." He waves his wand again, changing the song to one of his own choosing. The Clash again. "Stay Free." So much for diversity.

I bob my head slightly, in time with the playful, percussive pulse of the guitars. _"We met when we were at school. Never took no shit from no one, we weren't fools..."_

"Well? Get on with it, ki-" He pauses. "Just get on with it, wouldya?"

"_We're only havin' fun, piss on everyone…"_

"Right." I clear my throat.

"_In the classroom."_

I start again. My curiosity pushing me through my misgivings. I lean forward, resting both of my elbows on my knees. "Why'd you do it, Sirius? The thing with Snape? I know you don't… you _hate _the guy, but it's… you could have _killed _him. Tricking him into going down to the Shrieking Shack like that. And… what about Remus? Now _Snape_ knows about the werewolf thing, and I'm guessing that means a lot of other people know now, too. How could you do that? To _him?_ To Remus? He's supposed to be one of your best friends…"

Apparently, that question hit a nerve. With a jarring _clang_, Sirius chucks the screwdriver he was still holding into a pile of parts, sending them tumbling down to the ground. I flinch. I know Sirius has a temper – but I've never really had much experience with it firsthand. But, judging from what I've seen of Reg's frequently battered nose, I'm guessing it's something to be avoided. The music plunks away, hollow and distant-sounding in the background.

Sirius closes his eyes and slowly pushes a few strands of hair back behind his ears as he tries to collect himself. "You 'n' Lily… And Remus, too, for that matter…" He opens his eyes, and they burn into me. "You all just _assume_… You all assume the worst about me. Which, you know, thanks for that, by the way. You're all _real_ great friends. Really, top-notch…"

"Look, Sirius, I never said…"

"Yeah, you _did_." He points his cigarette, still smushed between his fingers, at me. "When you went and ran your mouth off to Lily, you _told _her that me an' James were trickin' Snivelus into goin' down to the Shrieking Shack when Remus was a full-blown, scary-ass werewolf. Which would _mean_ that we were tryin' to kill 'im. Or that we were too stupid to know the difference. Either way, not most flatterin' opinion to have of me, kid."

The horror of my misjudgment, thick and heavy, rises up as a painful lump in my chest. I _know _what I saw. I couldn't _possibly _havecreated all this trouble and have been… completely wrong. "B-but," I stammer. "I _saw_…"

He waves his hand again. "You dunno what you saw. And anyway, it's my turn to talk, so quit squirmin' around an' be quiet for a second." He presses his fingertips together in front of his face, clenching tight the thin muscles of his square, shadowed jaw. I realize I'm holding my breath.

"See, what happened was, James an' I _were_ plannin' a trick for old Snape. We _were_. Somethin' involving switching out the ingredients in his potions set, or… I don' even remember, 'nymore.

Anyway, _that's_ what you saw. Then, coupleuh days later, on a night that _happened_ to be a full moon, Snape comes up, babblin' about 'ow he _knows_ what me an' James are up to, goin' down to the Whomping Williow all the time. So, I tell the slimy git he's batty; to go see for himself. There's nothin' down there. 'Cept… that night, there was.

Fortunately, James came along, and figured out what I just did. An' he ran off and pulled Snape back, an' got to play the hero, as usual."

"_Each of you get three… years in Brixton!"_

I exhale. My mind ringing with embarrassment and shame. It makes sense. It does. And there's something in his face… I know he couldn't be lying. "S-so… so why didn't you…"

"Tell anyone?" He scoffs. "I did. The people the mattered, anyway. Dumbledore – _he _believed me. Remus… not so much. I let James deal with Lily. I figured she'd take Snivelus's side, and, anyway, s'not my business."

"And…"

"'AND,' what?" He raises his head, the coveted Black Family cheekbones high and haughty. For a second, I'm struck by how much he and Regulus look like one another. Similarity #811. He lowers his head back down before continuing, "And nothing. I told everyone who needed to know. Clearly, I dinn't go up with their estimation, since none of 'em but James are speakin' to me. As for everybody else, they can piss off. I don't care what they think…"

I interrupt him again. "What about me?"

"You? You were with Reg, an' you were the one who dreamt up that whole crazy scenario in the first place. Why would I waste my time tellin' you, when you weren't gonna believe me, anyway…?"

"I'm talking to you now, aren't I?"

"Yeah, kid. But…" The song slowly tumbles down through its few final chords, redolent with sentimentality.

"_But go easy…"_

"You can't really afford to be too picky about friends these days, either, can you?"

"_Step lightly…"_

"Yeah." I wince. "You're right."

"_Stay free."_

We sit there, staring at each other, trapped in the quiet in between of the end of one song and the beginning of the next. Neither of us is sure how to move forward, how to proceed, now that we're both carrying on with the added weight of both of our confessions.

I speak first. "Sirius, I'm really sorry. I had no idea…"

Shaking his head as he stands up, Sirius reaches his arms up behind his head in a long, satisfying stretch. "Don' worry about it. Bygones, kid. You made a mistake. Christ knows I've made plenty of those…" He wipes his hands on the legs of his pants before tugging his arms through his leather jacket. "We should be gettin' back. The match's prob'ly almost finished by now…"

I'm slow to get to my feet, reluctant to begin the miserable trek back to the castle. He grips one of my shoulders and steers me toward the door. "Come on, kid. We'll be there before you know it."

"That's what you said last time."

"Oh yeah, I _did_ didn't I…" He pauses in the doorway and gazes fondly back at his motorcycle for a few moments. "We _could_ always take the bike…" A vision of me, lying at the base of a tree with my skull cracked open, flashes through my mind. That's all the motivation I need. I grab my purse, and hurry outside. "I'll walk, thanks."

"Figured you'd say that…" He waves his wand at the radio a final time to turn it off, hurtling us back into the damp, eerie quiet of the Forbidden Forest – which seems to be doing a pretty good job of living up to its name in these early hours of twilight. Sirius begins pacing circles around his workshop, muttering the same complex incantations as when we arrived. Shivering in air that's far too cold for May, I pull a sweater out from somewhere within the bottomless depths of my bag. My fingers brush against the smooth glass bottle of fire whiskey. That'll come in handy later. Sirius comes jogging back toward me when the tiny little shack has once again vanished from view. I find myself unwittingly impressed. Say what you want about Sirius and his lack of better judgment – the guy was a genius.

"Alright, kid. You ready?" I nod. "Good. _Lumos!_" His face lights up with the pale, white glow emanating from his wand, as he peers down at me. Grinning. He's always grinning. "We really _will_ be there before you know it this time, Eves." Holding his wand high above his head, Sirius plunges ahead into the murky maze of the forest. And once again, I follow.

Comforted by the fact that I'm following someone who knows exactly where he's going.

And, even if we lose our way – I know it'll only be for a little while.


End file.
